


Out of Suffering Into Love

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Cannon Divergence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Falling In Love, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Gun Violence, Human AU, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of homophobia, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Past Drug Use, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Abuse, Slut Shaming, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-11-23 11:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 58,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20891441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Aziraphale is a sexually repressed man who grew up in a religious household. Crowley is an artist with a sordid past. Both of them are afraid to love and be loved.





	1. Aziraphale Jeremiah Fell

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Acts of Service](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19453120) by [seekwill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seekwill/pseuds/seekwill). 

> Unlike seekwill’s fic, I wanted to play with the idea of having Heaven and Hell not being specific organizations, more the strict, suppressive sterility and homophobia of some traditional, religious upbringings and the unhealthy permissiveness of social cultures that thrive on alcohol and drug abuse, vanity and envy. Heaven being represented as the fear of reprisal from moral authority and strict, suffocating observance of what sometimes seems like arbitrary rules. And Hell being sociopathy, toxicity, addiction, complacency and greed. 
> 
> I’ve struggled in my life to recover from drug and alcohol addiction and to rid myself of toxic, codependent, harmful relationships that came from growing up in a family riddled with addiction and too much permissiveness. And many others have struggled with growing up gay in a religious household or growing up in a sex negative, restrictive culture. I feel like Aziraphale and Crowley are also struggling to come to terms with the deep flaws of the cultures in which they were raised in this human AU. And in doing so, they step closer and closer to each other. 
> 
> My representation of the demons are out of character to a large degree. I had to shape them into a more subtle, social influence on Crowley. The church (in a very general sense) and Aziraphale’s mother being an influence on him that loosely represents the angels. So If you’re looking for direct parallels to the show, you won’t see many in those characters. But I hoped, like seekwill was able to do so beautifully in her fic, to keep Aziraphale very much Aziraphale and Crowley very much Crowley. 
> 
> I took bits and pieces of things from seekwill's fantastic human AU fic, such as Aziraphale and Crowley having the same middle name, Crowley's eye color and sensitivity to light and a few other small touches, but it's really my own work, inspired by seekwill's. Her piece is one of my favorite fics of all time and I couldn't help but let her incredible talent pull me into writing a human AU of my own.
> 
> This fandom has so much hidden depth, and to me, this speaks out most clearly in the themes of yin and yang, light and dark, good and evil that weave their way through the television show (and of course the book). I wanted to explore those themes in my work. I hope you enjoy!

_ Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars. _

_ Forget not that the earth delights to feel your bare feet and the winds long to play with your hair. _

_ Beauty is not in the face; beauty is a light in the heart. - Kahlil Gibran _

Aziraphale sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair of the hospital waiting room, hands folded neatly in his lap and a carefully neutral expression on his face, struggling to ignore the rather rowdy group of drunk men congregating on the row of chairs opposite him. He’d come to the hospital after getting the text.  _ The  _ text that told him (and everyone else in the friends and family text group) that Anathema had finally gone into labor. His friend’s pregnancy had stretched two full weeks past her due date, and everyone, Anathema not in the least, had been anxiously awaiting the moment when her water broke and she could welcome her overdue visitor into the world. 

_ _

Anathema was a later-in-life friend of Aziraphale’s. He was 50 years old, a Christian and a bookshop owner and she was a 32 year old American transplant to London from sunny California. A Wiccan woman who owned a shop the next street over that sold sage and crystals and divining rods and books on numerology, astrology and the occult. It was a pure accident that they’d become as close friends as they had. She’d wandered into his shop one day to peruse for new books on black magic and satanism and chaos magic and hadn’t been put off when he’d informed her with a sniff that he didn’t think he had any of “those sorts” of books in his shop.

_ _

She’d ignored his stuffy attitude and smiled a smile of pure loveliness at him that he’d found instantly disarming. “Well then,” She’d asked with a sly grin “Perhaps you have some books on kabbalah or ancient Christian mysticism?”. The implication was clear immediately to him. He was turning his nose up at  _ those types of books _ when his own religion and it’s progenitors had already gone down the path he considered charlatanism.

_ _

They’d delved into a lengthy debate on the occult nature of the roots of Christianity and Judaism, and how many Wiccan and occult influences had made their way into mainstream Christianity over the centuries. Despite himself, Aziraphale had been charmed. It was hard not to be charmed by a young woman of such incredible beauty, paired with a sharp humor and a warm laugh. When she’d returned to the shop the next week, under the pretense of looking for more books, he could tell she was actually there for more conversation and they’d struck up a tentative acquaintanceship. 

_ _

A year later, they were meeting at the local coffee shop to continue their conversations outside of working hours and Anathema had brought her young husband Newt along a few times. Aziraphale had found Newt to be just as charming and easy to talk to, with his shy eyes and awkward sense of humor. 

_ _

A year or so after that, he’d found himself invited to the Pulsifer’s home for Sunday dinners, then, as if by a natural sequence of events that, looking back he still didn’t really understand, he found himself at Christmas dinner. Found himself being presented with new books, wrapped in bright colored paper, the crown from a cracker atop his head, a glass of sherry in his hand and a warm feeling in his heart. He was bolstered and enlivened by these unexpected friendships. Being a bachelor of a certain age, he’d grown a bit isolated after the death of his mother from cancer a few years prior. His father had disappeared when Aziraphale had been a teenager and hadn’t ever come back. He and his mother had been very close, so her death had had a profound effect on him and he’d struggled with depression in the years after her passing. He’d let his connections with his friends from his bible study group and his older friends from seminary school slip and fall apart (as abandoned friendships tend to do) and had spent far too much time reading in the back of his shop, or wandering the streets of Soho on his off days, nosing around used book sales or gazing sadly into the Thames. 

_ _

He’d never had a real romantic partner. This was largely due to the fact that he was gay, had known he was gay his entire life, even when he didn’t yet know what it meant, and had been raised in a Christian household. He’d been discouraged from expressing his feelings of attraction for other men both explicitly by his family and church and implicitly by society at large in the 70s and 80s when he’d been a teeager and a young man. The messages came to him over and over again. The slurs spat out in response to certain behaviors. The whispers behind people’s hands at church services and funerals about this uncle or that boy who went away to college and learned sinful behaviors. 

_ _

His mother hadn’t been harsh or cruel. She had simply expressed, in many different ways, both subtle and not so subtle that she expected him to find a nice, Christian wife, settle down and give her grandchildren. When a very young Aziraphale had told her, in a moment of innocent candidness that he’d rather like a husband, she’d shushed him and corrected him. “No dearest. Men don’t marry other men. You need a  _ wife _ ”. The preacher at their local church, Father Gabriel, was far more explicit, railing about the “sin of homosexuality’ as part of what seemed like every other sermon until it occured to Aziraphale that perhaps the poor man was suffering from some unwholesome urges of his own. What had Queen Gertrude said in Hamlet? “The lady doth protest too much methinks”? 

_ _

Still, despite the strong messages from his community that the way he felt was wrong, he’d found very early on that there was nothing to be done to change those feelings. He’d had a few fumbling exchanges with a few random men over the years. They had been secretive, awkward, interactions, involving the swift unzipping of a fly or the lifting of a shirt. No bed. No words of affection. No lying wrapped up in someone’s arms the way straight couples did in the movies and on television (though his mother disapproved of shows involving too much sexual content or nudity). He couldn’t be open with how he felt. Couldn’t go to those sinful, dark, pulsing clubs on certain streets in the city, and how else was he to meet men? People like him? He didn’t know.

_ _

And so he’d fumbled with a few men in restrooms and back hallways. Those rendezvous always left him feeling deeply ashamed and even lonelier afterwards. Ashamed mostly because every interaction, every rushed pull of hands and hurried crash of lips on lips made him less and less of what he’d been told repeatedly that he  _ should _ be. A good Christian man. A family man. A straight man.

_ _

And so, sometime in his mid 30s, he’d simply given up on physical affection and romantic love and had poured all of his energy into collecting books. Books were fascinating, entertaining, mysterious. One never knew what one would find upon turning the first page and seeing the enticing black pattern of the first block of lines crawling across the paper. He didn’t need people, he’d told himself. He had literature. Tales of adventure, mystery, romance. He had the entire written history of the world at his fingertips and who could really ask for more than that to keep a man busy in life? As the decades went by, society at large lightened up in it’s views on homosexuality, but the church, his local church, Father Gabriel, his mother.. They did not. It was the only real community he’d ever known, outside of seminary school, which wasn’t any more permissive or understanding. 

_ _

Upon befriending Anathema and Newt, he’d suddenly realized that he did in fact need human interaction quite badly. He loved his animated chats with Anathema. Chats that strayed into all corners of literary and occult topics and sometimes just meandered through subjects of every day life. What color to paint the nursery. Whether or not she should buy Newt an expensive new tie for Christmas  _ would he have an occasion to wear it? or do I just really want to see him in it _ ?. She was a clever young woman, with a cynical sense of humor and she wasn’t afraid to challenge his beliefs and provide counterpoints to the things he’d always been told were “God’s truth” over the years. 

_ _

Anathema delicately avoided the topic of sexual orientation, though Aziraphale was certain that she knew he was gay. People always seemed to be able to divine this without him telling them. Perhaps it was his old fashioned way of dressing, paired with his delicate mannerisms? After his mother’s death however, he’d grown less and less invested in hiding his feelings. He still kept them to himself, even from Anathema, but if she’d asked, he’d have told her about it in a heartbeat. He just didn’t feel like it needed to be discussed. Especially since he wasn’t out looking for a relationship and had no community of other gay people to speak of. 

_ _

One day, Newt had shyly approached him on the subject of science fiction and he’d been delighted to discuss the works of Asimov and Anthony and Heinlein, and to provide Newt with first edition copies of the sci fi classics he hadn’t yet read (on loan of course, as Aziraphale was paradoxically opposed to actually selling books from his shop). He discovered that Newt was just as easy to talk to as Anathema, and he had a warmth and sympathetic nature that rivaled hers. 

_ _

His life had been irrevocably improved by these friendships, and Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder what had taken him so long to make new connections. He supposed he’d relied too heavily on his mother’s company and on the sporadic, semi-annual emails or phone calls with his old chums to stop and think that maybe he had ended up isolating himself socially. 

_ _

His mother had been a delight to talk to. He was an only child and so it had always been just the two of them. Best friends. She’d named him after the angel that guarded the eastern gate of Eden, who’d held a flaming sword, and despite the fact that he was mocked relentlessly in primary school for his long, hopelessly biblical name, he’d grown to like it. Aziraphale Jeremiah Fell wasn’t nearly as bad as some other names he’d heard in his childhood. He rather thought it made him sound a touch exotic.

_ _

He and his mother had studied the bible together, had gone shopping together, had watched endless television shows together. Upstairs Downstairs, Fawlty Towers, I Claudius, Star Trek, and while some of these shows weren’t “good Christian entertainment”, and when a teenage Aziraphale had broached this subject, his mother had winked and said in a voice full of companionable conspiracy “I won’t tell Jesus if you don’t”. After Aziraphale had moved out to a modest flat of his own and had gotten a job as the personal assistant to a successful publisher, he’d taken her shopping twice weekly and to bible study and to church services. 

_ _

She taught him how to bake and how to mend patches in clothing and joked (with a sad note to her voice due most likely to her knowledge of his true nature) that she was making him into the perfect husband for some lucky lady one day. Still, she must have realized that these comments were pointless and had laid off making them when her son had remained single well into his 30s, and when he never brought any women around, other than school chums that were clearly not romantic interests.

_ _

When she’d been diagnosed with ovarian cancer, he’d put up a brave front for her sake, had driven her to all her doctor’s appointments and refilled her medicine and had sat by her hospital bed for hours on end, ever the devoted son. At night though, after she’d gone to bed, he’d wept silent tears at the thought of life without her in it. That had been a rough year and a half as his favorite person in the whole world had withered and weakened and slowly, painfully passed from this world and into God’s heavenly embrace. Aziraphale had prayed fervently and often during that time, but it hadn’t done anything to ease his mother’s suffering, nor his own worry and grief. 

_ _

It was after her death that he’d started to distance himself a little from the church. He no longer went to bible study and slowly started taking Sundays off from attending normal church services. God seemed distant and false after the death of his mother, and he couldn’t help but think about all the years he’d wasted hating his own desires and suppressing his feelings in the service of a god who’d thoughtlessly taken the person he loved the most away from him in such a cruel and heartless manner. 

_ _

He didn’t blame his mother for her homophobic words. She was only doing what an upbringing in a strict Christian family had done in turn to her. She’d at least taken a few steps away from the constraints of religion by keeping her disapproval gentle and tacit, rather than relying on the verbal abuse and punishments he’d heard that some families inflicted on their gay children. She’d shared her love of dark humor and culture with him and taught him to be one hell of a good baker. She’d done the best she could for the upbringing she’d had, and he was grateful to her for all she’d done for him. 

_ _

He’d bought the bookshop on what felt like a whim from the earnings he’d made working relentless overtime hours for his wealthy publisher boss for 20 years. He’d saved up quite a bit, having not much else to spend money on. Few friendships and no boyfriends. He had no siblings. His mother had also been an only child and so he had no nieces or nephews to buy Christmas or birthday presents for. 

_ _

What he  _ did _ have was shelf upon shelf, box upon box of rare books. Books on astronomy and history and science and books of romantic fiction and old atlases of countries who’s borders had shifted drastically over the centuries since they’d first been published. Books of all kinds, the older and rarer the better. His apartment was filled to the brim with books and he was running out of places to put them. So he’d bought the shop, intending to sell some of them, but also to spend a lot of time searching for and acquiring more and more. 

_ _

When he was lost in the yellowed pages of an old novel or when he was engrossed in the history of some ancient culture, his troubles and his loneliness receded into the background, and so, books had slowly become his life. 

_ _

Until Anathema and Newt had come along that is. They’d also introduced him to their friends, the Youngs. Deirdre, Arthur and their rambunctious son Adam. Aziraphale had taken an immediate shine to the small, quirky family and it felt good to have a child to josh around with and teach things to. He could tell that Adam looked up to him as a wise and mysterious individual by how the boy peppered him with questions about the Spanish Inquisition and the Black Plague. He did seem to have a macabre fascination with the horrors of human history, but he was also enthralled by tales of the saints from Aziraphale’s ancient collection of bibles and in the biographies of people like MLK Jr and Anne Frank. He was a curious lad, hungry for knowledge and he also devoured Anathema’s magazines on Wicca and Astrology and the occult. 

_ _

Deirdre and Aziraphale bonded over a love of baking. He taught her how to gently fold filo dough into geometric shapes that contained soft fillings, and she taught him how to make royal icing. Together at family gatherings, they’d wow the guests with ever more elaborate confections that brought oohs and ahs and compliments that made Aziraphale glow with pride. Even Arthur, an old school suburban British father, perhaps the most emotionally distant of Aziraphale’s new friends, was slowly warming up to him and would clap him on the shoulder nervously by way of thanks for a particularly delicious piece of pie or slice of cake he’d recently tasted. 

_ _

The Youngs and the Pulsifers lived in a suburb of London, perhaps 30 minutes drive from the hospital, and so Aziraphale, his bookshop a mere 10 minute walk, had been the closest and the first to arrive after receiving  _ the text _ . He’d gotten to the hospital a mere half hour ago, and if he knew anything about childbirth from all his literary travels, it was that it usually took more than a mere hour or two. He’d settled in to wait patiently for the others to arrive. Newt was in the delivery room with Anathema, and he was relatively certain that the Youngs had been out of town visiting relatives, and might not show up for quite a while, if at all. He supposed it wasn’t necessary for him to be there either, but he’d been far too excited by the prospect of meeting Anathema’s new baby, to sit around at home and wait, and he’d never been good at sleeping, so he’d come, if only to wait for several hours by himself, for the chance to greet the newcomer in person. 

_ _

Upon receiving the text, Aziraphale had rushed out the door, barely remembering to grab his coat in his excitement, and this only because it was mid October and chilly outside. He’d forgotten to grab a book or two to keep himself occupied, and his cell phone was hopelessly outdated, only good really for texting and phone calls. He didn’t trust the newfangled smartphones that everyone seemed to be utterly obsessed with these days and so had stuck with the now ancient flip phone that he’d bought in 2005. 

_ _

His taste in technology was not the only thing old fashioned about Aziraphale. He tended to dress like he was straight out of the 1950s. As a child, he’d idolized the simplicity and wholesomeness of that decade, and hadn’t ever really caught up with modern day fashions. And so, despite the occasional strange looks it earned him, he had taken to wearing an old fashioned vest over his button down shirts. He didn’t own a pair of jeans and wore dress pants almost daily, and on special occasions, such as this one, he wore a tartan bow tie. He was vaguely aware that it made him stand out even more than he normally did, but couldn’t bring himself to dress in the carefree casual way that most other people did. He supposed he was a bit old before his time.

_ _

He struggled daily with a losing battle to tame his wild, white blond hair but it was really of no use. His hair had a mind of its own, and after few hours, it would defy any and all attempts to keep it contained, either by comb or by pomade, and would end up spiraling randomly out from his head in a short, wild halo. It lent him an otherworldly, elfin sort of air and several people had told him they loved his old fashioned clothing and unruly curls (Anathema and Deirde in particular), but he struggled to believe those people, thinking of himself as hopelessly plain and old fashioned. 

_ _

Because he loved baking and loved eating the fruits of his labor, over the years, he’d grown a bit plump. This fact bothered him, for even though he never really dated anyone, all the men on the covers of posh magazines, and a good portion of the men he saw undulating on the dance floor when he’d wistfully strolled by the gay bars on Frith street had looked lithe and muscular with carefully arranged hairstyles and sleek, dark clothing. 

_ _

One such group of men were currently occupying a row of chairs opposite him, and Aziraphale had been struggling to avoid looking too closely at them for the past half an hour. There were four of them, all of varying ages ranging from what looked like early thirties to mid 40s and it was clear they’d been out clubbing earlier in the evening. It was currently half past midnight, and so it was likely they’d been drinking for a little while before whatever had brought them to the emergency room waiting area had transpired. Three of them were dressed in varying degrees of tight jeans and tight t-shirts (though it was far too cold outside for t-shirts). Two of them had short hair which was slicked up into artfully stylish peaks and spikes with liberal amounts of hair product. One had a shaved head and a carefully trimmed goatee wore a t-shirt that proclaimed “Cock Hungry Queen” which made Aziraphale flinch in shocked disapproval when he’d first laid eyes on it. The fourth man was also in tight dark jeans, but was far more conservatively dressed, in a black silk shirt and a black jacket. His hair was a lovely dark copper color and was pulled back into a small pony tail at the nape of his neck. Thick, errant strands of it had escaped the hair tie to fall about his face fetchingly and he wore a pair of dark round sunglasses. Aziraphale couldn’t help but notice that he was rather attractive and far more reserved than his friends, who, clearly drunk, were whooping and laughing and making ribald jokes. 

_ _

At the moment, Aziraphale was torn between not wanting to draw attention to himself by staring at them and in wanting to stare. Drunk, sassy gay men were not always an emotionally safe bunch to be around, if experience served. They were often a glance away from hitting on him, usually with a sense of cruel irony in their voices, or in making fun of his staid, old fashioned clothing. But also, they fascinated him. These men in particular were brash, flamboyant (except for the quieter man in the dark shades) and openly expressive of their sexuality. Aziraphale had always envied men like these, and had also feared them. Some women and some gay men in his experience had a cattiness and a cruelty for plump, out of fashion people such as Aziraphale. They sneered at split ends and artlessly applied make up and clothing that didn’t measure up to their posh standards, and Aziraphale didn’t relish the idea of becoming the butt of anyone’s jokes tonight. 

_ _

But the fourth man, with his high cheekbones and soft, expressive lips and the way he lounged bonelessly in the uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair as if it were a plush sofa… he had captured Aziraphale’s attention in a different way. 

_ _

He struggled to avoid staring, looking up at the ceiling, glancing down at his hands in his lap. Despite the fact that picking up one of the well worn magazines on a nearby table would offer him plausible cover for clandestine looks at the man across the way, Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to touch the dull things. Oh how he wished that he’d brought a book with him!

_ _

It had been a very long time since he’d been so enthralled by a man’s looks. But more than that, the man in black with the dark shades had about him an air of relaxed confidence. He was clearly the alpha of the group, and the other three were obviously performing for his approval, if the shy looks they gave him after every joke and every explosive burst of laughter were any indication. Every once in a while, he’d grace them with a sly smile that revealed a row of straight, white teeth with surprisingly pointy incisors, making him look a bit like a vampire from one of those ridiculous teen occult romance novels. Aziraphale felt his face flush at the sudden desire to be bitten by those teeth and be caressed by the long, expressive hands the man kept flung across the backs of the seats next to him. 

_ _

_ Oh my. What’s gotten into me _ he thought. But he knew what had gotten into him. He hadn’t had sex in probably 12 years. Hadn’t wanted to, what with the grief over the passing of his mother and his resultant deep dive into setting up the bookshop and making new friends, sex had been the last thing on his to do list. Yes, he’d felt aroused occasionally, by a steamy passage in a book of poetry now and then, but it was an urge that soon passed when it butted up against the deep well of loneliness he struggled with on a daily basis. Now though, now that he had new friends to ease that loneliness. Now that he had other things, new things to look forward to, his body had started waking up in other ways. He was a mature man now, with friends who he was almost certain wouldn’t reject him for revealing his sexual orientation. He could actually go on real dates now couldn’t he? 

_ _

Another image, this one of he and the man in black walking lazily down a street in Soho, or along the water in St. James’ Park, fingers interlaced, bloomed in his mind and he felt his blush deepen. He hadn’t realized he’d been staring so blatantly until the other man slowly lifted his shades up to reveal a pair of strangely light brown eyes (bordering on a soft gold color) and had returned his look. Their eyes met, and Aziraphale felt an electric shock jolt though him at the sudden intimacy of locking eyes with a complete stranger. He swiftly looked away, but not before he saw a small, sly grin tease at the corners of the other man’s mouth. 

_ _

Aziraphale looked back down at his hands, twisted in his lap, his face burning and his insides full of fluttering butterfly wings. To his dismay, he heard one of the more rambunctious men say, in a voice loud with too much drink “Someone’s got a not so secret admirer!”. 

_ _

The other men caught on to what had transpired and had joined in, hissing in stage whispers clearly not meant to be subtle. “ _ Oooooh… looks like grandpa over there has a thing for you Crowley!” _

_ _

_ “You hot for teacher?” _

_ _

_ “Oh Em Gee, look at that bowtie! Mmmm I love the professor look!” _

_ _

Aziraphale’s face was burning with shame and embarrassment. He resolutely kept his gaze trained on his hands, gritting his teeth and praying for the earth to reach up and swallow him. He was surprised to hear the man in black (Crowley apparently) tell the other men to “shut up and fuck off” in a voice that immediately cut through the hushed banter and had them nervously shifting in their seats. 

_ _

“Well, I think I’m headed outside for a smoke” one of them said “Come on lads, lets go”. There was a shuffle of shoes and then the waiting room was silent again. Aziraphale dared to look up briefly and saw that the man with the red hair and the sunglasses still sat across from him and hadn't gone with his friends. He was alone now and looking at Aziraphale, his shades back in place over his unusual eyes. 

_ _

“Hello” he said simply and Aziraphale felt his heart pound in his throat. 

_ _

“Hello” he managed to choke out the word in a voice that sounded hollow and clipped in his burning ears. 

_ _


	2. Anthony Jeremiah Crowley

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains the most mentions of rape/non-con/dub-con/coerced sex. I didn't use any specific details, but please be aware that it may trigger some folks.

Anthony Jeremiah Crowley was born to a poor single mother in Barking. He was one of five siblings from two different fathers who were no longer in the picture. As a child, he’d been a quiet boy. His siblings were always screaming and yelling and clambering for attention from their overwrought, perpetually grumpy mother, but not Anthony. He preferred to sit by himself on the top bunk (won by dint of being the eldest) in the room he shared with two other brothers, drawing on a sketch pad with a pencil. He loved to draw and had done so since the very first time his small, chubby fist had figured out how to hold a crayon when he was barely one year old. His siblings hadn’t been artistically inclined in the least, preferring to run around with plastic space ships and dump trucks, crashing into one another and making fake explosions with burst of air through gritted teeth. 

The girls, his two sisters, shared a room next door, and he could always hear them giggling about something through the walls. He didn’t really feel any kinship with them either. They were a strange breed, next down from him in age, and seemed overly interested in Heartthrob Magazine and in the soap operas their mother let them watch once a week when she needed a nap after work. They were strange, soft creatures and his brothers were strange, tough creatures and Anthony.. Well, he was something in between. 

When he grew older, as a teenager, he’d taken to hanging out with the outcast group at school. The boy with the pierced ears, the girl with dyed black hair, the sullen, quiet boy in doc martins who carried a secret switch blade and only spoke in monosyllables. Outcasts were the only people who seemed to understand and tolerate him. He was quiet and articulate and sullen and in the early 80s, a decade characterized by bright colors and over the top hairstyles, he stuck out like a sore thumb. 

Lots of people had told him he was good looking over the course of his young life, and so he’d developed a bit of a vain love of nice clothing. He worked two part time jobs just to have the money to buy the latest fashions and also more art supplies so that he could draw bigger pictures with better materials. He hid the jobs from his mother so that she wouldn’t demand money from him for rent. In the way of many young people with a hard working parent, he was sort of oblivious to the sacrifices she made to keep himself and his four siblings clothed and fed. 

He’d known he was gay since he was very young and had found himself developing crushes on handsome movie stars. When he’d asked his mother whether or not he could marry Roger Moore after seeing his first James Bond film, she’d rolled her eyes knowingly and changed the subject, and young Anthony, realizing that his feelings for other boys was not a subject for polite conversation had automatically avoided bringing it up again. Once in school, he ended up having brief affairs with other boys who’s knowing looks in the locker room clued him in to the fact that they were like he was, but it wasn’t a time when society welcomed openly gay relationships and so Anthony kept his flings secretive. It was fine with him. He loved sex, even clandestine sex… maybe especially clandestine sex, which felt taboo and exciting, but he didn’t fall in love with any of these boys. 

For most of primary school, he spent a good portion of his time sitting at a table in the lunch room, surrounded by other sullen teenagers, sketching endless pictures with pencil and ink in his endless sketchbooks. Pictures of avenging angels and demons with antlers, pictures of spiders in webs and statues in graveyards, studies of his friends faces and pictures of the city landscapes he saw around him in the poor suburbs where he went to school. He had a lot of talent, or so said anyone who looked at his work, but he never felt compelled to go farther with it. 

He didn’t fall in love for real until he saw Lucian in a gay bar while Anthony was out with some friends for a pint. Lucian, with his slicked back hair and stylish suit jacket. His green eyes flashing as he conversed animatedly with a friend sitting next to him at the bar. Anthony was immediately enthralled by this glamorous, handsome person. He’d sauntered over to the older man (Lucian was probably in his late 20s or early 30s) and had leaned languidly against the bar, fixing the other man with a smoldering look over the friend’s head. To his surprise, Lucian had burst out laughing. Anthony, immediately put out that his seduction techniques had caused the other man mirth, had tried to slink away in embarrassment, but Lucian had swiftly gone after him, catching his elbow and turning Anthony to face him, laughter still echoing in his impossibly bright green eyes. 

“Hey now” the man had said “Don’t run off now. I didn’t mean to laugh. You just looked so… rehearsed”. Lucian had offered to buy him a drink and he’d accepted immediately. The older man was fascinating and handsome and glamorous. He was a music producer who’d worked with several popular local bands, and he had a lot of money. 

What he also had was a burgeoning heroin addiction. 

The first time Anthony did heroin, at Lucian’s urging that he “try something new”, he’d felt his head spin deliciously, and all of a sudden, all of his worries, his family stress, his insecurities over not being lovable or good enough… all of that static simply disappeared. The golden lullaby of the drug in his bloodstream swept all the fear and anxiety out of him in a slow rush. He ended up lying loose and naked and glassy eyed, wrapped in Lucian’s arms, staring dreamily up at the glow in the dark stars on Lucian’s ceiling as if they were the breathtaking galaxies and nebulas he’d learned of in science class. 

Anthony knew that heroin was a dangerous drug, but Lucian was so reassuring, so calm with his rationalizations that all good artists “experimented” with drugs and that it was just something Lucian did in the evenings to relax, (even though Anthony caught him snorting lines at other times of day as well). Not wanting to seem ridiculously provincial, he’d followed Lucian’s example and had started dabbling as well, here and there when Lucian offered.

Soon though, he’d developed a strong dependence on the drug and things had gone south fast. After a few months it turned out that Lucian was not only a liar (he wasn’t a posh music producer), but that he was also in quite a lot of debt. Anthony was so deeply, senselessly in love with him and simultaneously so enthralled to the drugs that Lucian supplied him, (Not just heroin, but cocain and endless bottles of booze as well) that he didn’t have the wherewithal to protest when Lucian had invited some friends over and encouraged Anthony to have sex with them. 

“Come on darling” Lucian had purred into his ear after cutting him up several thick lines of coke and holding Anthony’s dark copper hair back out of his face so he could snort them..”Give my friends a good time and they’ll pay the rent for the next month. You love me don’t you? And you love sex right? So go on and help us out. I’ll be right here watching. I won’t let anything bad happen to you”

From there, things had spiraled out of Anthony’s control. Lucian went from being a loving boyfriend to a demanding pimp so swiftly and seamlessly that Anthony had struggled to remember the moment the shift had happened. Perhaps it was the first time Anthony had tried to refuse him. He’d wanted Anthony to give a blow job to a frankly revolting “business partner” of his in return for ten bags of dope, and Anthony had said no, vehemently shaking his head. Lucian had grabbed him by the hair and pulled his face close, hissing to him through gritted teeth “Listen here you uppity little fag. I  _ own _ you now. You do what you’re told or you’ll get no more drugs and I’ll kick you out onto the street so fast that your empty head will spin”. The thought of withdrawal from his now fierce heroin addiction, out on the streets in the cold (his mother had long since kicked him out and told him never to return and all of his friends had disappeared when he’d moved in with Lucian) was enough of a threat to force Anthony to get down on his knees in front of the sleazy older man and do what he was told. 

Things progressed this way for a few years while Anthony lost weight and dark circles appeared under his eyes. He suffered from nightmares and thought often of ending his own life. One night, while walking home from a club in which he’d been fucked by three men in return for a wad of bills he’d be expected to immediately hand over to Lucian under threat of a beating, he’d stumbled his way into a church. Anthony had passed the church many times on his walks around town, or on the way down to a club, but hadn’t given it a second thought. Tonight though, the doors were open, and he was cold and he remembered hearing that a person could always seek sanctuary in a church. Anthony didn’t really know what sanctuary was, but he felt he needed something.. Something to keep him from hurting himself.. To give him the strength to carry on with his life. He slowly, cautiously entered the church, feeling very out of place. There was a dim light emanating from near the alter. Anthony’s mother had been catholic, but hadn’t pushed religion on any of her children, barely clinging to her own faith, and so Anthony hadn’t spent much time in churches. 

He’d stumbled his way to the rear of the church and into the confessional booth, knowing what it was and what it was for from his mother’s scant descriptions of her childhood in catholic school and from television shows and movies, but uncertain of the exact motions to go through. Immediately upon entering, he’d heard a warm, older male voice intone “What brings you to confession this evening my child?”. Anthony had broken down and had told the unseen priest everything. His highly dysfunctional relationship with Lucian, the prostitution, the drugs, the thoughts of suicide. He’d started crying at some point during his description of the abject horror his life had become and by the time he’d finished speaking, he’d ended up sobbing, his head resting on his folded arms against the ledge of the confessional booth. 

“There there my son.” the same warm voice intoned “it is a good thing that you’ve opened up and told me about your pain. It won’t do to keep all of that inside now will it?”

The priest seemed to sense that Anthony wasn’t a religious person, probably due to Anthony’s complete abandonment of anything approaching correct religious ritual, and so he didn’t ask Anthony to perform any Hail Marys or Our Fathers. He only encouraged him to seek help. To find a shelter or a rehab center and to work his way towards sobriety and healing. He’d given Anthony the address of a local Narcotics Anonymous meeting and of a women’s shelter that accepted men (a rare thing) that had cropped up several streets over in the past few years. Anthony had gratefully thanked him, still sniffling, wiping his running nose on his sleeve. Despite his outburst of grief however, or maybe because of it, he’d felt lighter and freer than he had in years as he’d walked out of the church and back onto the street. 

He went straight from the church to the shelter and spent the night there, and rather than bringing Lucian’s money back to him, he decided he’d keep it. He used it to check himself into a week long rehab program to sweat the drugs out of his system. It was horrible, the pain, the nausea and vomiting, the shivers and the nightmares that comprised his days and nights for the entirety of that week, but when it was over, when he was able to leave the program, feeling pale and weak, he’d felt a sense of deep calm come over him. He swore in that moment to never touch another drug again, and also to never ever again fall in love. 

He’d met a rowdy group of local men around his age and spent some time hanging out with them in bars and clubs on the other side of the city from Lucian’s haunts. He knew spending time around alcohol wasn’t a constructive way to approach a life of sobriety, but he had no social connections outside of scenes such as those and these new friends were supportive of his not drinking. They never pushed alcohol on him and they didn’t do hard drugs. They were normal, rowdy lads. Most of them gay like he was. Knocking about with nothing particularly important to do, just like him, and he felt more comfortable around thumping music and crowded dance floors than he did anywhere else at the moment. 

One of his new friends had been an ex military man, who had the habit of referring to everyone in the group by last name, and so “Anthony” had changed to “Crowley”. Crowley hadn’t minded. Anthony was a name that was tied to pain and heartbreak and trauma, so he happily extended the use of “Crowley” to everyone he met, rather than keeping it a nickname among his friends. 

The years went by and he managed to stay clean and sober. He went to NA meetings, finding the support of other NA goers a warm sort of familial connection that did a lot to help him stay on the straight and narrow. He got a job working as a bartender in a posh nightclub that served upper class, mostly straight clientele and was happy to let the ladies hit on him and the men, who appreciated how well he could mix a perfect martini give him large tips in a brandy glass on the bar. It was the type of place Lucian wouldn’t be caught dead in, and that was all for the better. 

One night, while he was sketching a swift picture on a napkin, an older gentleman in a silk tie and high end haircut had looked over and remarked that he had quite a bit of talent. Anthony had replied that he’d drawn for most of his life but hadn’t really done anything or gone anywhere with it. The man had asked to see a portfolio and had promised to return the next night. 

His eyes had gone wide as he’d leafed through Crowley’s many intricate drawings of occult figures. His men with hooves and sea nymphs and gargoyles, all cavorting about among a profusion of ivy leaves and black tree branches that looked like long, slender fingers reaching across the page. Crowley’s drawings were dark and detailed and had about them a mix of childhood innocence, but also a whisper of something vaguely threatening and unsettling. A macabre glimmer in the image of a panicked horse with rolling white eyes, or the evil snicker on the lips of a wood nymph with a knife hidden in the folds of her gossamer slip. His artwork was enticing and mysterious and beautifully detailed. The man revealed that he worked for a gallery and that they’d been looking for a third artist to showcase in their upcoming New Artists Expose at the end of that month, and would Crowley care to be included? He’d get to keep most of the proceeds from the art he sold, owing the gallery only a small rental fee from each sale. 

He’d agreed immediately, pleased to have his work admired, and simultaneously struck by an extreme case of imposter syndrome. Who was he to show his artwork in a posh gallery? He was just a useless ex junky who mixed a relatively good drink and drew in sketch books in his spare time.

But then the day had come and Crowley was surprised to sell three of his pieces, for several hundred dollars each. He’d never in his life made so much money so quickly. After being taken on by a few other galleries in other parts of London, he earned himself a reputation in the art world. Ten years later, he was doing well financially and was running a gallery of his own and his work had reached a level of local fame he’d never dreamed possible. It felt good to be admired for something other than his looks and sex appeal, and with that new admiration, his confidence in himself, as a person who deserved love and a good life for himself grew immeasurably.    
  


He still went out with his old chums once a month or so, except this time, all the drinks were on his tab. He wanted to pay them back for letting him lean on them in rough times and for treating him with kindness when that had been what he’d needed most in the aftermath of his disastrous connection with Lucian. As for Lucian, Crowley never saw him again, and for that he was glad. He wasn’t sure if his ex lover/ex pimp/ex abuser had lost track of him or had simply given up on looking for him, and he didn’t care which. He religiously avoided the clubs and bars where Lucian was known to spend time, and often, during the first few years after pulling himself out of that living hell, he’d found himself looking over his shoulder on his walks home alone on dark nights, expecting to see Lucian, haunting his footsteps. But he never did. 

Lucian’s influence stayed with him for the twenty years between when Crowley last saw him and the present day in that Crowley never again let himself become that enamored or that connected with a lover. He kept his dalliances brief and casual (though safe) and kept his heart carefully guarded against deeper feelings. Love always turned to shite didn’t it? So it was best not to indulge in that sort of weakness. Deep down, he knew his aloof nature was due to the trauma he’d experienced at the hands of an abusive narcissist, but he still kept himself away from sentimental feelings. Years prior, he’d gotten into the habit of wearing sunglasses because even as a small lad, he’d had a minor sensitivity to light but also to keep people from seeing his eyes and reading his true feelings. The two purposes dovetailed nicely and had the effect of making him look mysterious (if a bit of a pretentious bastard, but that was OK too).

This night, one of his friends, Dagon, had slipped on a patch of ice outside the second club they’d gone to and had split his head open on the blunt corner of a stone step. It had bled profusely, but Dagon remained conscious, if very woozy on the six block walk from the club to the hospital. For an hour or so, Crowley and his remaining friends, Haster, Beezie and Ligur (all still going by their last names due to a decade old system of nicknames) had contented themselves with hanging around in the waiting room to see if Dagon was alright.

If Crowley were honest with himself, he’d outgrown his friends. They seemed content to go out drinking, hook up with random men and work their stifling jobs day after day, while Crowley had moved on to different things. He’d wanted to go back to take classes in sculpture, to learn how to cook, to start putting his drawings on mural sized canvasses. He’d even found himself developing a desire to read books… His friends however seemed unable to move past the vanity and narrow mindedness and mild alcoholism that had characterized their younger years. They were growing difficult to be around if he were honest with himself, but he struggle to square that with how they’d helped shelter him and provide him with a much needed family when he’d found them after rehab. 

There was only one other person in the emergency room on a dead Wednesday night after midnight, and the man seemed almost surprisingly unusual. He was probably around Crowley’s age, with wild, short, white-blond hair, dressed in a strangely old fashioned get up of cream colored dress pants and suit jacket, a blue, buttoned down shirt, and a… tartan bow tie? Crowley had snickered inwardly at the man’s stuffy, silly appearance, before noticing that he was actually quite handsome. A fact he ascertained by casting brief, hidden glances at the man behind his dark shades. The man across from him had fine features with a well shaped nose, soft, expressive mouth and large hazel-blue eyes, framed by dark blond lashes. He sat very awkwardly, as if just a bit uncomfortable in his own skin. This was a thing Crowley could sympathize with, being that it had taken him nearly a decade to grow used to being clean and sober, and even longer to rebuild a solid self esteem after his sordid, traumatic past. Not feeling at home with oneself was par for the course in Crowley’s life. 

The more Crowley looked at the man (he had precious little else to do other than watch his friends mock each other and laugh like jackasses), the more he liked what he saw. The man really was exceptionally handsome, and handsome in the way (unlike Crowley) that he had no idea how good looking he was. It was painted on his body language in broad strokes that he was completely unaware of his own beauty. He was also clearly very uncomfortable with the behavior of Crowley’s rowdy, club-drunk friends. Perhaps he was a nervous straight man, unsettled by Hastur and Beezie and Ligur’s flamboyant nature? No… Crowley could recognize a gay man when he saw one. At least he could a good portion of the time, and this man’s delicate mannerisms, the way in which he straightened his vest (dear lord, he was wearing a vest as well…) and smoothed his hands nervously down his thick thighs, and the way his hands moved as he nervously checked his phone.. Crowley was almost certain he was looking at another gay man. One could never go on stereotypes. No one was more aware of this than Crowley, who made money on the fact that a large number of women had assumed he was straight during his years as a bartender. But still...

The man checked his hopelessly outdated flip phone several times, and Crowley wondered whom he might be waiting for. He watched as the man crossed and uncrossed his legs, smoothed his hands down his legs again, moved restlessly in his chair. Dear god, did he never sit still? And yet, despite his nervous energy and old fashioned attire, Crowley found him extremely appealing to look at. And so he kept sneaking glances, until the next time he looked over at the man and saw his hazel eyes fixed on Crowley’s face. The man was staring at him, and was clearly not aware that he’d been caught. Crowley felt an intense ember of desire curl into a surprisingly hot flame deep in his lower stomach at being stared at by this beautiful, strange creature. 

He slowly raised his sunglasses and fixed the man with a return glance, and was incredibly pleased to see a deep blush color the other man’s pale face when he realized he’d been caught. To be fair, most people blushed when Crowley showed his eyes to them. They were a very light shade of brown. A golden brown, pale and strange and very pretty (or so he’d been told by countless people, lovers, friends, strangers). The man looked away immediately, and clutched his hands nervously in his lap. Crowley grinned broadly, feeling the thrill of possibility blooming between them. 

Unfortunately, Ligur, with his ludicrous t-shirt and his too many vodka shots had noticed the exchange “Someone’s got a not so secret admirer!”

Soon his friends were all making comments and giving him pointed looks and feeling each other up in jest. Crowley rolled his eyes impatiently, cursing them inwardly for their lack of tact and class. He told them to fuck off and they’d thankfully headed out to the car park for a smoke, leaving him alone with the mysterious stranger. 

_ No time like the present _ , Crowley decided to make the first move. “Hello” he said, affecting as casual a tone as he could muster, despite the fact that his heart was beating double time.

“Hello” the man replied, sounding significantly less self assured. He returned his bright, blue-green eyes to Crowley’s face and Crowley felt his breath hitch inside his chest.


	3. Reaching Out

“Come here often?” The man in black asked, and for a moment, Aziraphale thought that he genuinely meant it. He often lost track of sarcasm when he was nervous. Thankfully though, he stopped himself before he could respond and redirected his reaction to a small, uncomfortable smile. “My friend is in labor” he said, “you?”

“My friend is an idiot” the other man replied with a lopsided grin. “He fell and hit his head after one too many drinks. They’re probably stitching him up as we speak.”

  
“Oh! I do hope he’s alright then”

“He’ll probably be fine. At the very least, he’ll have a new scar to show off.” The man shifted in his chair, all black clad long legs and skinny arms and narrow waist and Aziraphale struggled not to stare openly at his languid beauty. He gulped.

“So,” The man continued, “your friend, she’s expecting a boy or a girl?”

“They wanted it to be a surprise” Aziraphale replied, looking down at his hands. “Green and yellow.. You know”

The man looked confused “Green and yellow?”

“Oh.” Aziraphale realized he was making a rather large assumption about this stranger’s experiences with new babies. “When a couple doesn’t want to know the sex of the baby, they usually decorate the nursery in gender neutral colors… like green and yellow”.

“Right. Sounds pretty arbitrary to me. I’d prefer black” the man grinned again and Aziraphale felt his heartbeat increase and his palms go sweaty.  _ Dear lord but he’s attractive. _

“How long has she been in there?” The man asked

“Oh, probably a couple of hours now. No way of telling how long it will take. Her husband is in, helping her with breathing and such, or I’d call him to ask.” He grinned nervously. 

“Ah, well, all the more time for you to chat with me then” the man said. And before Aziraphale could react to that particular statement, he’d spoken again, “What’s with the bowtie?”

Aziraphale was taken aback and mildly insulted. He couldn’t help bringing a self conscious hand up to tug at the article in question. “Well..I just like the way they look” he stammered. 

The man’s grin broadened. He looked predatory, but in a way that Aziraphale found thrilling rather than unnerving. “It suits you. Not sure anyone else could pull it off though.” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if the double meaning had been intentional, but he had a sudden mental image of this man slowly undoing his bowtie and pulling it off him and felt his temperature spike and his breath come a bit faster. 

“Th-thank you” he said. Had he been complimented? He was a bit lost. “Why are you wearing sunglasses inside?” he countered and was a bit pleased to see the other man pull back in surprise at the inquiry.  _ Two can play at the sudden question game. So there. _

“Well…” The man paused, clearly weighing out the words he wanted to use. “To be honest, it’s a combination of reasons.” he paused again.

  
“I’ve got time to listen” Aziraphale replied, surprised at the forward, flirtatious nature of his own words. 

“I wear them because they make me look like a bit of a wanker. And people treat you differently when they think you’re a bit of a wanker. They put their guard up and feel unsettled and I like that...”

Aziraphale didn’t know what to make of this, so he simply waited for the man to continue. 

“Also, I have a minor light sensitivity, so in places like this” the man waved a long fingered hand up at the ceiling of the waiting room “with harsh, neon lighting, its simply more comfortable to wear them…” The way he trailed off sounded as if he had more to say, so Aziraphale raised his eyebrows a bit and waited. 

“And well, its a way to hide what I’m thinking and what I’m looking at init?” The man spoke as if this would be an obvious deduction for any reasonable person to make, but Aziraphale, who never wore sunglasses and had been unaware that anyone would want to hide their feelings from the world in such a way only stared at him uncomprehendingly. 

He realized he was staring and immediately looked back down at his hands, absently flipping his phone open to check for texts or calls, though he knew none had come in. 

“Jesus Christ that phone is old!” The man exclaimed and Azirphale flinched slightly at his casual taking of the Lord’s name in vain, but corrected himself quickly, not wanting to appear so easily shaken. “Can I take a look at it?” The man asked.

Aziraphale handed the phone over. He wasn’t sure why he so quickly trusted this man. He had less than no reason to do so, and yet he stood from his chair and took the two steps to close the distance between them and handed his phone to a complete stranger. 

The man turned the small phone over in his hands wonderingly and flipped it open. “I haven’t seen one of these in forever” he mumbled, then, to Aziraphale’s shock and mild alarm, his fingers started to fly over the buttons on the small keyboard.

“Wait… what”? But before he could finish his complaint however, the man finished whatever he was doing, snapped the phone shut again and handed it back, a broad smile on his handsome features. 

“What did you just do?” Aziraphale couldn’t help but sound accusatory. One didn’t muck about with a stranger’s phone like that.  _ Cheek! _

“I put my number in your phone” the man replied, his grin broadening, revealing another glimpse of his straight white teeth. “In case you want to see me again”

Aziraphale didn’t know how to respond to this. He’d been struck momentarily dumb. “Oh… oh dear,… well…”

“What’s your name? Mine’s Crowley”

“A-Aziraphale”. 

“Wow! Your parents must have been religious”

“Yes.. my mother is.. _ was _ very religious. She named me after the angel that guarded the eastern gate of Eden..” Aziraphale searched for mockery in Crowley’s tone, but had found none. Only gentle curiosity and good cheer.

“Is that so?” the man sounded genuinely interested. “I don’t remember hearing about that particular angel before. Must have been a good looker”

Aziraphale felt his face grow hot. He was clearly being hit on, quite aggressively and quite charmingly by this glamorous, insanely sexy stranger. No, not a stranger. His name was Crowley and his number was now in Aziraphale’s phone. He sat back down on the chair opposite Crowley and slipped his phone back into the inside pocket of his jacket feeling dazed at the attention and his bodily reactions to it. 

“You should send me a text so that I have your number too” Crowley said

“Oh! Oh yes.. I’m sorry. I didn’t think of that.” Aziraphale fished the phone back out of his pocket and flipped it open, swiftly clicking through the contacts list until he saw Crowley’s name. He sent a simple “Hello” text to Crowley and snapped the phone shut again, suddenly realizing that he’d been extremely eager to comply with Crowley’s request. He must look like a nervous, lovestruck fool.

Crowley smiled when he heard the beep indicating that Aziraphale’s text had come in and he pulled his own smooth, glossy black smart phone out of the pocket of his black jacket and swiftly added Aziraphale to his contacts list. “There” he said with a note of pleased finality. “Now you’ll never be rid of me”. Aziraphale was sure he meant it as a joke, but he marveled at the flush of quiet joy Crowley’s words made bloom in his chest. The man was most definitely interested in Aziraphale. This man who looked like he’d stepped directly off the set of an action film or a romance novel cover was interested in  _ him. _ . In plain, chubby, hopelessly old fashioned Aziraphale. He couldn’t help but smile. 

_______________________________________________________

The blond man, Aziraphale, smiled, and the sight of it caused soft, gentle things to move, deep inside Crowley that hadn’t let himself feel in 20 years. And as a result, he felt a small concurrent thrill of fear. The man’s smile shouldn’t affect him so strongly, but it really lit up Aziraphale’s entire face. He veritably glowed when he smiled and Crowley was sure that he’d ever seen anything more beautiful. 

“You’ve got an amazing smile” he blurted out before he could stop himself, and saw Aziraphale’s eyes glimmer briefly with …apprehension? 

_ Perhaps he’s not gay? Perhaps he’s simply friendly _ Crowley thought at seeing this small spark of fear ghost across Aziraphale’s face upon hearing Crowley’s compliment. But then, the fear melted away and the smile was back, brighter than ever and Crowley could reassure himself that this.. this thing between them was definitely a mutual attraction. A flirtation. 

Aziraphale was looking at Crowley’s face and suddenly, Crowley didn’t want his shades in between him and the other man’s gaze, so he lifted them off his face and looked back with eyes he was sure were, at this point, glowing with desire. They stayed there, looking at one another for just a beat too long before being interrupted by Aziraphale’s cell phone making a series of electronic tones. He was getting a call. He shot an apologetic glance in Crowley’s direction and quickly flipped the phone open to answer, rising and taking a few steps away for politeness sake.

Crowley couldn’t hear the person on the other end, but it was clear what was being conveyed.

“Oh my! Oh how wonderful! Congratulations! How much longer until I can meet her?”. Eventually, he said goodbye and flipped the phone shut, turning another radiant smile, this one even brighter and more incandescent at Crowley. “They have a daughter!” He exclaimed joyfully and Crowley couldn’t help but grin along with him. “They said I can come see her in a few minutes, once the mother is all cleaned up and comfortable. Oh isn’t that just lovely?”

“Congratulations” Crowley said warmly, grinning like a fool at being witness to Aziraphale’s unbridled happiness. 

“So, Crowley, what is it that you do?” Asked Aziraphale, his tone light and joyful with the news of the new baby’s arrival. 

“I run an art gallery in Soho” Crowley replied simply

“Ah.. how nice. I myself own a bookshop… also in Soho. What is the name of your gallery? Perhaps I’ve been there.”

“It’s the Dark Angel Gallery on the corner of Poland and Broderick” he replied 

“Hmmm. Not sure as I’ve ever been. Are you an artist yourself?” Crowley nodded. “Well you’ll have to show me some of your art sometime then” 

“Are you asking me out on a date?” Crowley saw his opening and took it shamelessly. He was pleased to see the other man turn a light shade of pink about the cheeks as his mouth fell open slightly in surprise. 

“I...I was…well I” he stammered, his flustered confusion insanely charming and Crowley decided to put him out of his misery.

“Are you free Saturday afternoon? I could stop by and we could head over to my gallery and then maybe get some lunch?” 

“Oh.. Saturday? Well, I do have business hours Saturday, but there’s no reason I couldn’t close up a bit early. I  _ am _ the owner after all” Aziraphale grinned and Crowley felt joy leap inside his chest at how quickly the man had changed around his schedule to make himself available. “And I know the most delightful sushi place off Lexington street. Do you like sushi?” he asked, eyes shining.

“I don’t have much experience, but I’d love to widen my horizons” Crowley replied with a grin. “What’s your address? I’ll swing by around one?”

Aziraphale quickly rattled off the address of the bookshop, which Crowley added to the contact information under his name and number in his cell. Just then, a nurse entered “Mr. Fell?” she asked

Aziraphale raised his head and lifted his hand in response and the nurse said “The Pulsifers are ready for visitors at this time. Won’t you come with me?”

“Oh! Yes! Coming!” Aziraphale spared a quick glance at Crowley as he swiftly rose to his feet. “I’ll see you Saturday then?” he asked as he walked away, clearly not wanting to be rude but also burning up with impatience to meet his friend’s new baby.

“Yeah angel, I’ll see you Saturday”.


	4. Invitation

Aziraphale cautiously approached the Pulsifer’s hospital room. He hoped he wasn’t inserting himself too much into his new friends’ lives. He was certain they’d tell him if he were being too forward, but still.. He hadn’t had new friends in a long time. He was unsure of the level of involvement he was supposed to have… to want. What he wanted was to be close to them and spend time with them and to be included to the level they wished him to be included. What he feared was that they’d grow tired of him, or think of him as a doddering neighbor man and take pity on him. 

He needn’t have worried, for the moment he stepped over the threshold, both Anathema and Newt turned to him with shining eyes and broad smiles. Newt quickly beckoned him over to the side of the bed where Anathema lay, propped up, a small bundle in her arms. Azirapahel approached and rested his hands cautiously against the rails of the bed as Anathema gently turned the bundle to reveal a tiny, bright pink face. The baby was very small and soft and her round little face looked like that of a pixie. Her little lips were screwed up into a grimace and her eyes were squeezed shut into slits. Aziraphale thought she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Oh hello..” he breathed, feeling tears prickle in the corners of his eyes. “Welcome little one”. He looked up at the happy couple “What did you settle on for a name?”

“Abigail” replied Newt with a soft smile.

  
“Oh how lovely” He kept his voice to a whisper “Hello little Abigail.” He reached out a tentative finger and stroked one tiny, balled up fist, then her extremely soft forehead with its whisps of thin, light brown hair.

“Yes” Newt said “Say hello to your uncle Aziraphale”. At his words, Azriaphale’s tears welled up and spilled over. He took a step back, so as not to drench the baby, and hurriedly wiped them away. 

“Oh dear. I seem to have gotten a bit weepy” he said in a voice, thick with emotion. What he knew he was feeling was love. Love for this tiny baby and this sweet couple who’d welcomed them into their lives so freely and easily. He glanced at the two of them to find them looking at him with tears in their eyes as well. 

“How was the delivery?” he asked continuing to wipe self consciously at his damp face.

“Mercifully it went pretty quickly” Anathema responded, shifting little Abigail to a more comfortable position in the crook of her arm. “The women in my family are apparently biologically well suited for childbirth. My aunt Rosita had seven and my aunt Carmen had nine! My mother was the black sheep of the family, only having me apparently. Plus” she added with a glowing look at Newt “I had a very good lamaze coach.” Newt’s cheeks colored and he looked at her with such adoration that Aziraphale had to look away to give them a moment’s privacy. 

“Would you like to hold her?” She asked looking up at Aziraphale. 

“Oh… Well…. Yes, but… I’ve never done that before.. Held a baby. I’m not quite sure I’d..”

“Nonsense” Anathema cut short his nervous disclaimers and levered herself up carefully into a better sitting position against the pile of pillows at her back. She gave an expectant look at Newt who stepped forward to gently extricate little Abigail from her arms and hold her out to Aziraphale. 

“You just hold her in the crook of your arm, with your hand on her bottom, like this” Newt explained as he carefully placed the small, swaddled form into Aziraphale’s arms. Aziraphale felt a thrill of fear. He didn’t want to drop her! Or make her cry or… or do anything wrong. But to his surprise, once the infant was settled into his elbow and he could wrap his other arm around her side that she felt quite snug and secure in his embrace. She weighed barely anything, and her small body radiated a gentle warmth. She made a small gurgling sound and her mouth scrunched into a tiny scowl at the sudden change in location, but she didn’t cry or squirm at all, seeming content to just lie in his arms. 

“Oh my” he breathed, gazing down into her small, pink face. “Oh my. She’s simply lovely” His tears were back and he let them leak out of the corners of his eyes and down his cheeks. It didn’t matter. Who wouldn’t cry with joy after being confronted with such a sweet, tiny little angel? 

After a few short minutes though, in which he bounced her gently (gentle bouncing when holding an infant must be coded into human DNA for he’d never seen a single person resist doing it when they had a baby in their arms) he carefully handed her back to Newt. Her father held her, gazing down into her face with likely the same dopy expression that had probably graced Aziraphale’s face seconds prior, making cooing noises at her. Anathema sighed, a tired happy sigh. 

The three chatted quietly for a while, about plans for what to do when they returned home, and after securing a promise from Aziraphale to come round and visit them in a week or so, once they’d settled back at home, he bid them goodnight… Or more accurately good morning, as it was already half past 4am. 

Aziraphale walked out of the hospital with a small, happy smile on his face and a spring in his step. He hadn’t slept a wink this night but he felt like he could run a marathon. It had been an evening of thrilling and wonderful changes. He’d walked to the hospital, and so started back home on foot as well. He could always use the fresh air.

His plans changed abruptly however when a sleek, black sports car pulled up alongside him with a deep rumble of its powerful engine and the tinted window rolled down to reveal Crowley’s grinning face. “Lift home?” Aziraphale noticed that he’d removed his shades and his amber colored eyes, bright and lovely were gazing up at Aziraphale from within the dark interior of the car. 

“Oh! Hello Crowley. Um… well” he hesitated. Despite the fact that just the sight of Crowley made his pulse race with anticipation, he didn’t know this man at all really. And agreeing to meet him in a public place was worlds different than getting into his car. 

Crowley seemed to catch his apprehension. “Don’t worry” he said reassuringly with a hint of sarcasm “I’ll neither chop you up into little pieces nor make a pass at you. I’m a perfect gentleman and not at all a serial murderer”. 

“I wasn’t...I...oh, well thank you” Aziraphale pulled open the passenger side door and clambered, ungracefully he feared, into the low, sleek vehicle. Once he’d settled into the squeaky leather seat and secured his safety belt, Crowley hit the gas and they took off with a jolt. Aziraphale yelped in surprise and clutched at the hand hold at the top of the window frame for support. 

Crowley’s driving was… enthusiastic to say the least, and so Aziraphale only spoke to splutter out directions to him as he drove, spending the rest of the time clinging to the roof of the vehicle. There was an awkward moment after Crowley took a sharp turn at high speed in which Aziraphale had reached down next to him to grab at anything to steady himself, only to realize he’d placed a hand on Crowley’s firm, warm thigh. He yelped again and withdrew his hand with a swift apology. Crowley had let out a loud bark of laughter, throwing his head back and revealing a tempting expanse of pale neck.

“Now look who’s making passes!” 

Aziraphale’s face burned with embarrassment, and with the memory of what Crowley’s slender, muscular leg had felt like beneath his fingers. It was a thought that would likely haunt him for quite a while. Soon they had pulled up in front of Aziraphale’s shop. 

After the wild ride from the hospital, the sudden lack of noise and movement was slightly disorienting. Aziraphale took a moment to catch his bearings.

“Ah.. so this is the bookshop?” Crowley said, peering through the windows of the car up at the brick red building. “You’re A.J. Fell then?”

“Y-yes. It stands for Aziraphale Jeremiah Fell. My full name.”

“You’re kidding” Crolwey’s voice was suddenly incredulous.

  
“No, I assure you, that is in fact my name”

“You’re middle name is Jeremiah?” 

“Yes. I know. Hopelessly old fashioned.. Like the rest of me, it means ‘exaltation of the Lord. My mother wanted me to be a priest”

“That’s my middle name too” Crowley’s voice had taken on a strange quality. Reverence? 

“You’re kidding!” Aziraphale’s eyes had gone wide. “You must be pulling my leg”

“Nope… I’ll leave the leg groping to you angel” Aziraphale felt his face burning again and looked down at his hands momentarily unable to look at Crowley’s intent amber eyes. 

“But yeah.. My middle name’s the same as yours. Spelled j-e-r-e-m-i-a-h right?

Aziraphale nodded swiftly, shaken by the strange coincidence and the forward flirtation of the mant sitting next to him “That’s… that’s very strange indeed”. He wasn’t sure what he should say at this point. He was frankly a bit overwhelmed. Here he was, in the passenger seat of possibly the most beautiful man he’d ever seen, who not only hit on him with wild (yet charming ) abandon, but now they’d discovered they shared a name? “I certainly hope our mothers weren’t sisters, separated at birth” he said lamely with a nervous, lopsided grin.

“That would be unfortunate” Crowley responded. “ _ Deeply _ unfortunate.” The implications inherent in his regret made Aziraphale’s insides turn to jelly. 

“Well, I should be going” Aziraphale mumbled out, glancing sideways at Crowley, who was leaning languidly (he seemed to do everything languidly) against the intersection of door and seat back on his side of the car, keeping a careful distance between them as if to bely his flirtatious comment, still regarding Aziraphale with his unsettlingly beautiful eyes. 

“Sure thing angel” he replied

“Why are you calling me that?” Aziraphale hoped his inquiry hadn’t come across as accusatory. He rather enjoyed the pet name, but was confused by it.

“Oh, well because your mother named you after an angel” The other man replied with a small smile playing about on his lips. 

“Oh.. yes of course”

“And because you’ve got that beautiful halo” Crowley added. Aziraphale self consciously reached up to touch at the wild profusion of white blond curls at the side of his face and wondered if it were possible to die from the heady mix of social awkwardness, romantic longing and pleasure that Crowley’s words were causing to gallop wildly through his nervous system. 

“Oh.. well.. Thank you” he mumbled softly, face burning. He shot Crowley a swift look, and finally found the courage to open the door and clamber out of the car before he made a fool of himself. Once he’d gotten his feet securely under him on the sidewalk again, he leaned down to look back into the window at Crowley. “I’ll see you Saturday then?” he asked, trying not to sound too eager.

“Saturday angel. It’s a date” Crowley grinned at him, then, with a small wave, and a brief glance to check for oncoming traffic, Crowley skidded off down the street, accompanied by the rumble of his car’s engine and the faint squeal of tires on blacktop. 

Aziraphale watched until the sleek black car rounded a corner and disappeared. Then he slowly fumbled his shop keys out of his pocket and let himself in. He wandered to the kitchen at the back of the shop and put on some water for tea, feeling like he was under a trance. He could still smell Crowley’s posh aftershave in his nostrils, could still remember the feel of Crowley’s warm thigh under his hand. He kept seeing images of Crowley’s bright amber eyes, piercing and thrilling, dance before his mind’s eye. 

It seemed that he was developing a rather large crush on the mysterious gallery owner. Aziraphale had not fancied someone in many years, outside of movie stars perhaps, or that adorable lad who bagged his groceries down at the market. But those were simple, small glimmers of attraction. This was a massive tidal wave of thrilling want that engulfed him whenever his thoughts strayed to Crowley, which, he was dismayed to realized, was every two minutes or so. 

He put the kettle on the stove and went to get his favorite teacup, a blue china one he’d found in a second hand shop several years ago. As he was fishing through his many tins and boxes of tea, trying to settle on which one he wanted, his thoughts strayed again to Crowley, but this time, he felt suddenly insecure and apprehensive. Crowley was surely out of his league wasn’t he? He was too handsome, too slick, too sexy to truly be interested in Aziraphale in any serious manner. Aziraphale had seen enough television shows and had read veritable piles of books on unrequited love and how painful it could become. What if Crowley were only after a quick shag? What if he could tell how hopelessly attracted Aziraphale was to him and saw him as an easy mark. Someone who could be tumbled into bed and then forgotten?

Aziraphale had zero dating experience, and every man he’d been with in the past, the last one over a decade ago.. had been clandestine, rushed affairs. A handjob in the back room at a wild party where Aziraphale was unsettled and nervous and felt like he didn’t belong. A swift and desperate exchange of oral sex with an older man in the bathroom of a bar. And before that, the fumbled, awkward experiences with another teen boy at school. None of it had prepared him for a real, true relationship. No one had ever taken the time to truly get to know him. No one had ever seemed to truly  _ want  _ him. 

_ Crowley _ seemed to want him. Aziraphale only hoped that it was in a way that went beyond the sexual. Not that there was anything wrong with sex. Aziraphale could very easily lose himself in fantasies of what it might be like to have sex with Crowley. To slip his hands under that silky, button down shirt and feel the soft skin of Crowley’s flat stomach beneath. To slip his tongue between those soft, expressive lips. He felt himself instantly grow aroused at the merest thought of being physically close to the mysterious red haired man. But… 

But… He wanted more he realized. He was tired of being lonely. Tired of denying his needs for intimate human connection that went beyond affectionate friendship. He longed to wake up next to someone and wrap them in his arms. The thought of Crowley seducing him and then disappearing the next day (just as the other men Aziraphale had had flings with over the years had done) was unbearable, because unlike those other men, Aziraphale felt a strong pull towards Crowley. He felt attraction for the other man that went beyond lust. 

Aziraphale made a promise to himself to make sure Crowley was serious about him before letting the man get any closer. He couldn’t bear it if Crowley were to use him. To tumble him into bed and then cast him aside. 

Lost in worries, mixed with fantasies about his stunning new acquaintance, it took Aziraphale several more minutes to realize that he hadn’t turned the flames on under his teapot. 

_________________________________________

Crowley let himself into his austere flat and threw himself down on his expensive black leather sofa. He flung an arm over his eyes and groaned. He was in trouble. In dire trouble and he couldn’t see a way out of it. 

This strange, rumpled, distracted man with the bright hazel eyes and shy smile was swiftly presenting a problem for Crowley. Crowley’s life was simple and easy. He spent a large portion of his week sketching and painting, and in between creating art, he scouted out new artists to show in his gallery. He handled the paying of the bills and the organizing of installations at the gallery, with the help of a part time assistant he’d hired a few years ato, and occasionally went out with his rowdy friends to watch them drink. Every once in a while an attractive young man (he preferred them young and capricious, less threat of a deeper attachment on either end) would catch his fancy and he’d have an enjoyable but empty one night stand. He enjoyed his life. It was relatively stress free and painless, and Crowley was done with pain. 

To Crowley, romantic love, the deep, confounding, consuming type of love he had felt for Lucian, was sure to lead to disaster. The one time he’d truly let himself open up and trust someone, to really fall for someone, that person had used him and hurt him deeply. He’d spent the last 20 years of his life avoiding connections like that. And to be honest, in the social circles in which he moved, largely in clubs and bars and art galleries, there was a lot of flash and looks but not a lot of substance. The artists he helped discover and promote were often straight young men and women, looking for a big break. Older artists of talent who hadn’t been discovered yet were rare, and even the one or two gay men among their number had not shown any interest in Crowley, Nor he in them. And besides, becoming involved with someone connected to the gallery wasn’t a good idea. 

And so Crowley had lead a life of eternal bachelorhood. And he’d liked it that way. He’d consciously kept people at arms length for many years, fearing that letting someone get too close would invariably lead to tragedy. He knew it was an irrational fear, that there were good men out there, that not everyone he grew close to would be like Lucian, an unfeeling sociopath. But still, he was haunted by memories of abject addiction and cruel emotional and physical abuse. And of being used like a doll for sex by Lucian’s insatiable business acquaintances. He didn’t relish the thought of confessing his sordid past to someone he cared for and respected. Hastur and Ligur and the rest knew about his past and hadn’t judged him over it, but they were a wild bunch. He didn’t need to uphold any standards of moral behavior to be considered an acceptable friend to them. He only had to be fun to knock about with.. And that he was.

Aziraphale was different. More than just different. He was amazing. His handsome face and shy, old fashioned sensibilities were deeply charming to Crowley. He’d felt an instant connection with the nervous blond man and had delighted in teasing him. Something about the way he could so easily make Aziraphale blush (a rare trait among gay men in the club scene of Lodon, Soho) had Crowley hungry to do it again and again, to see what sorts of other things he could say or do that would make that fetching pink flush bloom across the other man’s pale cheeks. 

The attraction was more than physical. Not only did Crowley find Azirpahale’s body exceptionally appealing, with his thick thighs and soft belly and broad shoulders, and his face like a Roman statue, but his antiquated way of speaking, how it clashed interestingly with his fresh perspective, the way he so clearly thought things through before speaking were endlessly fascinating to Crowley as well. He was everything that Crowley’s other friends, with their brash jokes and artless come ons were not. Refined. Genteel. Delicate. 

Aziraphale made Crowley feel crass and pushy by comparison. But the other man hadn’t seemed to mind Crowley’s blatant flirtation or his silly jokes. He’d seemed to enjoy them in fact. 

And what of them both having the same middle name? That was a startling coincidence. Almost as if they were made to meet one another…

Crowley quickly admonished himself for his foolish, romantic imaginings and tried to drag his thoughts back to safer territory, but only ended up wondering what it might be like to kiss Aziraphale’s soft, sensual lips. 

Yes, he was in trouble. He could see himself falling very deeply for this man, and that thought terrified him. He resolved to take things slowly. To approach Aziraphale with care. He’d pull back on the flirtation and be more respectful. He’d wait for Aziraphale to respond more. As it stood, Crowley had basically thrown himself at Aziraphale repeatedly during the first few hours of their acquaintance. He wasn’t even one hundred percent sure the other man was gay for Christ’s sake! He needed to lean back a little and give the man some space. And who knew? Perhaps on Saturday, Aziraphale would reveal himself to be dull and obnoxious, and this mad crush would dissolve on its own. And perhaps the queen will waltz into the gallery and buy up all of my works with gold doubloons he thought ruefully.

Pulling back from Aziraphale wouldn’t be easy. Even now, alone in his own flat, Crowley’s hands itched to bury themselves in Aziraphale’s bright halo of soft looking curls. His thoughts kept straying back to what it would feel like to be wrapped up in Aziraphale’s thick, strong arms. He needed a distraction, so he headed into his studio space. A room he’d dedicated to his sketches for new murals. He tried working, charcoal pencil gripped in his hand and a half finished picture of a dark skinned woman holding an apple before him on the page.. 

Suddenly, he realized with something he’d been too distracted and smitten to notice before. That he was currently in the middle of a series of sketches he planned to turn into a multi-panel mural of the Garden of Eden, as seen from the perspective of the serpent who tempted Eve to eat the apple. Ever since that fateful night when he’d stumbled down the aisle of that church to confess his sins, Crowley had held a sort of soft spot for churches. Christianity, whether he believed in the Christian god or not (he didn’t), had saved his life with a sort of divine grace. The priest who’d guided him towards the shelter and the rehab center had been a guardian angel if he’d been anything. And so, he’d decided to commemorate that moment with a new mural. Hadn’t Aziraphale told him he’d been named for the angel who was set to guard the eastern gate of Eden? 

Apparently, startling coincidences abounded where Aziraphale was concerned. The realization didn’t make him feel any better about his swiftly deepening crush. He struggled to ignore the implications of what his burgeoning feelings might mean and bent himself to the task of drawing the dark curls that cascaded down onto Eve’s left shoulder. Soon, he was successfully pulled into the rhythm of his work, but his thoughts still strayed repeatedly back to a pair of shining hazel eyes…


	5. Waiting

It was Thursday morning. Aziraphale didn’t need much sleep, often catching a few hours each night and napping a bit here and there throughout the day to compensate, so he’d stayed awake when he’d gotten home from the hospital. Besides, he’d been too charged up by his encounter with Crowley to sleep. Instead, he’d set about shelving a new box of books that had arrived from across the pond. Works of modern fiction he’d been waiting to add to his collection. 

As he cut open the box and poured through the glossy, colorful hard cover books, thinking, somewhat ruefully how he had never grown used to modern case wrap covers over first edition cloth or simple cardboard covers. There was something reassuring about reading a book that was nude, bare to one’s eyes, without it being wrapped in a flashy paper cover, adorned with some god awful art and the author’s gigantic head shot in the back. But his customers never seemed to mind. And despite the reputation he’d earned in the neighborhood for never wanting to let a single book leave his shop, he did in fact sell a few every week. It was only that he didn’t like letting the  _ wrong person _ leave the shop with the  _ wrong book. _

If a gentleman came in wanting a gift for his wife for their fifteenth anniversary and wanted to buy her some dull biography of her favorite movie star, Aziraphale would simply not let him leave until he pushed a book of romantic poetry into his hands. If a woman came in wanting a murder mystery, and went in search of some seedy, modern gumshoe paperback nonsense, he would steer her gently towards Arthur Conan Doyle’s works or those of Agatha Christie. It meant that he inevitably had to give up books he saw as being higher quality than what the person originally wanted when they came in, but in the end, he’d be happy knowing that he’d put them on the path of good literature. 

If the person balked at his suggestions, or insisted on purchasing their pointless, tasteless book, rather than heeding his advice, they’d be glowered out of the shop. His Yelp reviews were a binary mix of very positive, (“The bookshop owner was just lovely! He pointed me in the right direction to buy that perfect gift for my sister’s wedding!”) or very negative (“Bookshop owner was rude and pushy. And their hours are incomprehensible. I was escorted off the property when I asked for the biography of Oprah Winfrey!”). It’s not that Aziraphale had anything against Oprah Winfrey, or any celebrity really. He only found that reading about the life of anyone born in the last 60 years was sort of a waste of time if you didn’t start with reading about those who’d been born 100+ years ago, who’s deeds and words had informed all else that came after their death. Unsurprisingly, his customers didn’t always share his opinions.

Aziraphale sighed as he slipped the latest, glossy book into its rightful place on a shelf near the back of the shop and started relocating the ones further down, which were causing too tight a squeeze on the shelf. It was only Thursday, and his date with Crowley, (he could call it a date now as the other man had blatantly referred to it as such, otherwise he’d have considered it a “hang out” as young folks were wont to say) wasn’t until Saturday afternoon. It seemed impossibly far away, and when confronted with the prospect of seeing the thrilling, attractive man again, Aziraphale’s quiet life of books and walks about London by himself suddenly felt unbearably dull by comparison. 

The Pulsifers needed time to adjust to their new guest and so he couldn’t very well pop in there for a visit, though he very much wanted to. He was already head over heels in love with little Abigail and couldn’t wait to see her small, pink face again. He fervently hoped they’d start relying on him as a sitter. He enjoyed the times when he’d sat for Adam. Children liked him for some reason. Maybe because he didn’t talk to them like they were imbeciles. 

He felt a thrill of nervous anticipation every time he thought of seeing Crowley again. He’d already replayed the memories of their meeting over and over in his head, especially the particular moments when Crowley had first lifted his shades to fix Aziraphale with his amber colored eyes, and when he’d accidentally put his hand on the warm, firm flesh of Crowley’s long thigh on the wild ride back to the bookshop from the hospital in Crowley’s flashy car. 

He hoped that Crowley would still find him attractive in the cold light of day, without the accidental thrill of being strangers in a hospital waiting room to add an element of mystery to the proceedings. He hoped that Crowley wouldn’t suddenly realize that Aziraphale was a stuffy, plump, middle aged man who spent far too much time around books and who had no clue what he was doing stepping out with a stunning and thrilling individual such as Crowley. 

Aziraphale was a worrier. He always had been. And the more he cared about something, the more he worried. He was already planning a savings account to put money aside for Abigail’s university education and worrying about her meeting a nice boy to settle down with and she’d only been born, literally yesterday. He worried that Crowley would find him dull and annoying. He worried that if Crowley somehow still found him attractive after spending the day with him on Saturday, and if they decided to go physical with it, that he’d make a fool of himself for being so inexperienced and clumsy. He worried about falling in love. He’d never done it before, and he supposed it would hurt quite a bit, and be very distracting. For all that he was already developing a rather large crush on a veritable stranger, he was finding just that to be plenty distracting. 

He tried to push his worries aside. It wouldn’t do to put too many expectations on Saturday’s date. He should simply relax and not think about it. Busy himself about the shop and perhaps pay a visit to the Youngs and put Crowley out of his mind. 

This was easier said than done. 


	6. Saturday

Saturday arrived at last, though Crowley was unsure what had happened to the intervening days. He’d been wandering around in a bit of a haze since Wednesday night at the hospital. His assistant at the gallery had grown tired of repeating herself and had waved her hand in front of Crowley’s distant eyes, saying “hello! Anyone home in there?”. He’d lost track of the conversations he had with friends and caught himself gazing off into the middle distance several times over the course of the past few days. His mind kept straying back to his thrilling new acquaintance. 

Crowley made sure he looked fantastic before heading out to meet Aziraphale. He put on his nicest black jeans, the ones that hugged his legs and hips to an almost indecent degree and a loose, gray silk shirt with his silver snake tie hanging loosely around his neck. He’d pulled his hair back more tightly into a bun at the nape of his neck and put a small silver hoop in one ear. He even applied an artful smudge of black eyeliner around his eyes. He’d been told repeatedly that eyeliner made his eyes look fantastic, and he planned to work every single advantage he had on this date. 

That morning, he’d sent one single, very laid back text message “We still on for today? Meet at your shop at 1?”. He smiled when Aziraphale texted back within minutes “Yes! See you then!”. Crowley couldn’t help but be nervous. He had what he suddenly felt was a lot riding on today, and he was already in over his head with this new fellow. He’d thought about Aziraphale almost constantly since Wednesday night at the hospital, despite his repeated attempts not to. He’d even gone out to a club on Friday to try and pick someone up to take his mind off Aziraphale’s lovely eyes and soft mouth and maddeningly ridiculous bow tie, but it hadn’t worked. He’d wandered home, alone and distracted, even turning down a couple of interested men who’d leaned against the bar and asked if they could buy him a drink. 

He was looking forward to today for many reasons, but one very important one was that it would finally tell him whether or not this connection they shared truly was the fated, magical one he had in his memory of Wednesday night, or if he’d simply been charmed by novelty and overtired from his misadventures with Hastur, Ligur and the rest. He hated to think that maybe Aziraphale wouldn’t really be as interesting or as magnetically attractive as he remembered from the other night, but at least it would save him the pain of pining away like he’d been doing. 

He needn’t have doubted his feelings, for as he parked in front of the bookshop and saw Aziraphale, waiting on the corner, in his cream jacket and dress pants, leaning on the handle of a tartan umbrella as if it were a walking cane, he felt his heart leap in his chest at just the sight of the other man. 

“Hello Crowley!” Aziraphale chirped as Crowley exited his car and walked over. He had a bright smile on his face that made strong chemical reactions ping back and forth inside Crowley’s brain. 

“Hey there angel” Crowley drawled, struggling to be casual. “How’s the rest of your week been”

“Oh, it’s been rather nice, thank you” Aziraphale responded, sounding all the world like an elderly man on line at the post office, chatting with a neighbor, and yet Crowley found it unaccountably adorable. “I can’t yet visit the new baby because her parents are recovering and settling into their new routine, but I am simply dying to get the chance to see her again. And I got a new box of books in. They're frightfully modern and dull, but I have to keep them in stock because so many people ask for them… no accounting for taste I suppose.” The two had started walking side by side down the street, lead by Crowley, towards where his gallery was, a thirty minute walk away. After seeing Aziraphale’s reaction to his driving last time, he thought it might be best to go on foot, and Aziraphale complied without comment. 

“I brought an umbrella because it looked like it might rain” Aziraphale continued “It’s big enough to fit both of us underneath, so you needn’t worry about getting your fancy clothes wet. Oh my, I’m afraid I’m babbling how has  _ your _ week been going?”

Crowley laughed at the man’s effusive chatter. His bright voice, like his bow tie and his umbrella and his dislike of modern popular literature continued to charm Crowley. “It’s been fine angel. I’m working on a new mural, which won’t be done for several more weeks, but I’m always happy when I’m sketching”

“Oh! That’s wonderful! What’s the subject of your work?”

“That” replied Crowley with an arched brow above his dark shades “is a surprise.”

“Is it?” He watched as Aziraphale silently did the mental mathematics of figuring out that Crowley hoped he’d be around in several weeks time to learn the surprise of the artwork’s subject. Then he watched the other man’s cheeks grow pink when it dawned on him.  _ Perfect _ he thought as he saw the blush spread across Aziraphale’s pale skin. He wondered how many blushes he could make happen today without openly hitting on the other man. It was a challenge he felt up to setting for himself. 

“Oh… Well then, I look forward to finding out” Aziraphale said weakly, casting his eyes down to the sidewalk in front of them in a moment of bashfulness that made Crowley’s insides go all fluttery. 

They chatted amiably as they continued to walk towards the gallery. About Aziraphale’s history with religion and the church, which at first made a cold thread of fear run through Crowley’s stomach at the thought that he’d become besotted with a stiff, born again Christian, but no, Aziraphale’s faith was old and familiar and of the gently permissive yet at times stifling variety that Crowley was also familiar with as a child of a quasi religious working class poor family in the 1960s. Aziraphale spoke of distancing himself from organized religion after the death of his mother. About how he now strove to be kind and helpful to those around him without the structure of regular visits to a church or reliance on passages from the bible. 

“Besides”, he continued, in a voice that had grown very shy and hesitant all of a sudden “The church can sometimes be very negative about… people such as myself” 

Crowley’s heart leaped briefly at the thought that Aziraphale was about to confirm his deep suspicions about the other man’s sexual orientation “Yes..?” he prompted softly, wanting to tread carefully with a sensitive subject but also burning up inside with the need to know, to confirm that his suspicions had not been off, even under the onslaught of a pile of evidence he’d accumulated around Aziraphale liking men.

“Well… because I’m… gay” Aziraphale finished, glancing again at the sidewalk and biting his lower lip in a way that made Crowley want to kiss him very badly. 

“Yeah.” Crowley responded casually. “Me too. That’s why I never went to church in the first place. I mean they’re opening up to people like us, but by that point, it was too late for me to buy in”.

There. It was out in the open now. They both liked men. Even Though Crowley had been almost certain that Aziraphale was also gay, he had held a nagging doubt that he’d simply been one of those shy, effeminite straight men who just needed a platonic friend. He felt a rush of relief flood through him, and felt an added bounce in his step. 

They walked in silence for a minute or two until Aziraphale piped up again, “I think you’ll love the restaurant we’re going to. If you don't mind, can we go there before the gallery. I realize it's on the way, and I'm a bit peckish." Crowley nodded with a smile. "They do a lovely shrimp tempura and their saki is fantastic, though unless you want to push me home in a wheelbarrow, I fervently beg you to not let me have more than two or three cups of it” 

Crowley grinned broadly at Aziraphale’s colorful use of words “four or five cups it is!” he teased and was rewarded with his second blush of the day. He wondered if he could make it to ten blushes before they got back to Aziraphale’s shop. “You know,” he added thoughtfully “I’ve never had saki before”

Aziraphale’s face lit up with surprise and pleasure and he grasped Crowley by the arm “Oh then let me tempt you to try it! It’s rice wine and they heat it up like tea and you drink it in little ceramic cups. You knock it back just like a shot of hard liquor.”, and then, realizing he’d grabbed Crowley’s arm in a very familiar way, he swiftly removed his hand, his face coloring. ( _ blush number three! _ )

“I’ll have to take your word for it angel. I don’t drink. Not anymore” Crowley added, wincing inwardly at the implication of the last words  _ not anymore _ and with the questions that might follow a statement like that. But Aziraphale simply apologized, his eyes going round and his mouth falling open 

  
“Oh! I  _ am _ sorry. Is it because you drank too much? I have several friends that are currently in AA and I think it’s a very helpful organization. I shan’t drink either then and we can have tea!”

Crowley was impressed by Aziraphale’s free acceptance of his abstention from alcohol, as well as the other man’s easy acquaintance with twelve step programs. Out loud he said “Oh, don’t mind me angel. I could never have stayed sober for 20 years in this neighborhood if I minded other people drinking around me”. 

But Aziraphale, bless him wasn’t having any of Crowley’s reassurances. “Nonsense. I’ll have tea. I simply love tea, and who needs to drink saki in the late afternoon anyway. It’s settled. They have a lovely jasmine green tea that’s heavenly. I think you’ll like it”

Crowley felt it must be his turn to blush, because his face had grown hot at Aziraphale’s words. At the feel of someone caring about his needs and preferences. He had to admit to himself at this point that having a gang of binge drinking roustabouts as his best friends and in keeping himself to meaningless one night stands over the majority of the past two decades had left him with a severe dearth of people who cared about his needs. His boys were kind in their own way, and they loved him and looked up to him, but they were inherently a selfish bunch and he’d appointed himself a sort of mother hen who did the looking after, which left no one to look after him. He sensed that Aziraphale was very good at caring for others, and the thrilling thoughts of how that might play out between them had his body temperature spiking to the point where he shrugged off his jacket to carry it folded in the crook of his elbow. 

He gently bumped his shoulder against Aziraphale’s as they walked and mumbled his thanks. This made Aziraphale’s beautiful smile reappear and Crowley basked in it’s golden glow. 

The conversation soon strayed to food and it was pleasing in the extreme to watch and listen to Aziraphale wax rhapsodic about his favorite restaurants and the dishes he preferred at each one. He disclosed that he was a relatively accomplished pastry chef, and described in loving detail his favorite confections. Crowley cast multiple sidelong glances at Aziraphale’s face as he spoke, delighting in his expressions of glee and secretly getting a bit of a sexual kick out of how the other man’s eyes rolled and his lashes fluttered, how his soft lips moved to form the reverent descriptions of souffles and filo dough and creme de menthe and slivered almonds. 

Aziraphale caught Crowley looking and grew self conscious. His face colored again, though not, Crowley suspected from anything Crowley had done this time. The wind seemed to leave Aziraphale’s sails momentarily, and a small frown crept across his face as he said in a soft, regretful voice. “I suppose it’s no mystery that I love pastries so much… I mean.. I’m rather soft around the middle.” And something in his tone told Crowley that this was a subject that caused Aziraphale pain. Perhaps he’d been mocked as a young boy for being chubby, in much the same way Crowley had been mocked for being what people called “too thin”? And god only knew, the gay scene had about it a certain hyper focus on physical fitness and youth that could be cruel and capricious. 

“I think you’re beautiful” he blurted out, only wanting to take the sad, reflective look off of Aziraphale’s face, but unintentionally showing far too much of his hand. He resolutely avoided looking at the other man for fear that he’d been too forward, and they walked in silence for a minute or two. Eventually Crowley returned to glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, trying to keep himself from looking so often, but unable to resist taking sideways peeks at this effusive, handsome, conflicted man walking next to him. He wished he could say more to reassure Aziraphale that his body was more than appealing to Crowley. He longed to say  _ You’re sexy. You’re lovely. You’re heartbreakingly beautiful. The things I’d do to you if only you’d let me. I’d kiss that soft stomach and stroke those thick thighs and kiss your beautiful mouth, and make you believe how gorgeous you are.  _ But he kept silent. He didn’t trust what would happen if he complimented Aziraphale again. He’d made a promise to himself to give the man space and see what he truly wanted, rather than coming on strong like he usually did when he found someone attractive. This man was much more than a quick fling, and Crowley didn’t trust himself not to mess it all up, so he kept his distance.. With difficulty. 

“That’s the restaurant there” Aziraphale spoke up a minute or so later, pointing at a red sign with Japanese writing on it, a few building’s up. 

“Well angel, you’ll have to order for both of us. I haven’t spent a lot of time in sushi restaurants.”

“Oh my, I’d be happy to! I’m quite familiar with the menu. There’s all sorts of lovely things for you to try.”

“Well order whatever you want. It’s on me” Crowley replied, grinning at Aziraphale’s renewed enthusiasm for food. He was rewarded with another blush (the fourth of the afternoon).

Aziraphale tried to protest, but Crowley wouldn’t hear of it. They’d gotten to the restaurant and he held the door open for Aziraphale to enter, quickly shushing his attempts to insist on paying for lunch. They were quickly and politely ushered over to a small wooden table with two chairs by a lovely young woman with a shy smile and were left with two laminated menus. 

True to his word, Aziraphale didn’t even look at the menu. When the waiter arrived, he ordered miso soup, seaweed salad, Kani salad, two types of special rolls, some edamame and a pot of jasmine green tea. 

Crowley may have exaggerated his lack of knowledge surrounding sushi, but his experience was indeed limited to the California rolls he’d been offered from friend’s plates the two or three times he’d been in a sushi place in his life. He hadn’t ever really delved into many foreign cuisines, having never had much of an appetite for food. He usually ate sparingly, preferring to drink the random protein shake, or snacking like a bird throughout the day and living off multiple cups of coffee. He knew it wasn’t healthy to eat so little, but he’d always been the type to “eat to live, not live to eat”. After getting clean and sober, his appetite had kicked in enough to turn him from near emaciation, back to simple thinness and then had naturally tapered off. 

The waiter brought the tea out with two cups and Aziraphale graciously poured some for Crowley. “The ceramic mug gets incredibly hot, so you might want to give it a minute” he warned when Crowley reached for his immediately, so he drew back and waited. 

“How did you discover sushi then?” Crowley asked

“Oh, in a book actually. My mother was a standard British housewife when it came to cooking. Bangers and mash. Boiled cabbage. Fish and chips, you know the usual. Growing up, I thought that’s all there was. But then, I found a book on Japanese cuisine, and the bright pictures and the fascinating names for things… well, I was hooked shortly thereafter. It was far more difficult to find Japanese food back then, in the early 90s, but I did, and have been addicted ever since!”

Upon saying this, he handed Crowley a pair of chopsticks. “Do you know how to use these?” he asked, grinning when Crowley admitted that he did not. “Well dear boy, there’s a bit of a learning curve. But I’m sure you’ll catch on quickly enough, what with handling pens and pencils so often. You break them apart like so” he demonstrated “then hold them like this”

Crowley awkwardly attempted to emulate the way Aziraphale grasped the chopsticks, artfully between his fingers and failed miserably. They clattered to the table top. He grinned and picked them, up, determined to try again. After a few fumbling attempts, he managed to keep them in his grip and gave a few experimental grabbing motions that succeeded in lifting up a corner of his napkin. Aziraphale’s delight in watching him learn to use chopsticks was heartening. The other man was grinning ear to ear, making little encouraging comments to help him along. 

The plates of food and bowls of soup arrived soon after, and then Crowley got a true taste of humbling humility when he tried to pick up his first piece of sushi, and immediately dropped it in his lap. Luckily, he’d had the forethought to put a napkin down. He irreverently plucked the piece of fish, wrapped in rice off his leg with his bare hand and popped it in his mouth. The taste was interesting. He was somewhat familiar with it from the California rolls he’d eaten, but those were sanitized, full of fake crab meat and cucumber. This was a wet, squishy, briny thing, with avocado and fish roe and Crowley found it mildly unsettling, but also intriguing. He chewed thoughtfully for a few moments before swallowing, then looked up at Aziraphale, who was watching him intently. “I like it” he said, through the remnants of the fish and rice still left in his mouth. 

“Oh good!” Aziraphale seemed to have been waiting with bated breath for Crowley’s opinion. “Now try this one” he piped, but instead of indicating which piece to try next, Aziraphale expertly plucked a small rice cake topped with a slab of raw fish and wrapped in seaweed and held it out with his own chopsticks for Crowley to try. Feeding another person was a very intimate thing to do, and suddenly, they both realized this and the moment grew a touch awkward. Crowley glanced suspiciously at the artfully constructed morsel of food Aziraphale held aloft for him to try, but then, keeping his eyes trained on Aziraphale’s face, he leaned forward and gently took the entire piece into his mouth, pulling it away from the chopsticks in Aziraphale’s hand with deliberate slowness. 

He was rewarded with blush number five. 

Throughout the rest of the meal, Crowley sipped at some miso soup and tried a few edamame beans, which he liked, but mostly, he settled back with his now sufficiently cooled cup of tea and watched Aziraphale eat. The blond man treated each piece of sushi as if it were a sacred offering, placing it in his mouth with delicate precision born of decades of experience using chopsticks. He chewed with reverence, often his eyelids would flutter closed in pleasure, and he would sigh deeply and happily when something was particularly delicious. He made charming comments on why he enjoyed each different type of sushi, and gave Crowley insights into how it was prepared. Watching Aziraphale slowly and sensuously work his way through the majority of the food between them, Crowley could not help but wonder how this would translate to his behavior in bed, and he found himself swiftly growing aroused as he watched Aziraphale eat. 

There was no way this man could treat a plate of sushi this way and be stilted or selfish during sex. Crowley couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if the soft lips that wrapped themselves around the rim of Aziraphale’s teacup were instead pressed to Crowley's neck or his chest, or against his own lips in a wet, open mouthed kiss. He wondered if the noises Aziraphale made, little groans and gasps of pleasure at the taste of the food would be the same noises (perhaps louder?) if Crowley were to kiss his way slowly down Azirapahle’s body to worship him with his mouth. 

He realized that he had quite swiftly slipped into a searing hot fantasy about sex with the man across from him and shook himself with a start, suddenly feeling a bit guilty over imagining such deeply intimate things about his dinner companion without the other man’s knowledge. 

“Are you quite alright my dear?” Aziraphale asked, the last piece of sushi halting partway to his mouth. “You look a bit flushed”

“I’m fine angel” Crowley replied gruffly. “The tea’s just still a bit hot”

“Oh.. you should blow on it then”

Crowley groaned inwardly and struggled to remain casual. He blew on his tea, which was now practically room temperature in order to cover for his white lie and watched as Aziraphale made love to the last piece of sushi. 

Eventually, while they chatted about the history of sushi and about other good ethnic restaurants in Soho that Crowley “simply must try”, the waiter came with the check, which Crowley swiftly grabbed away from Aziraphale, who tried reaching for it. 

“Give up angel. I told you I’m buying lunch.” to his delight, Aziraphale relented with a small smile.

Soon, they were back out on the street and headed for Crowley’s gallery. Crowley was warmed by the tea and the soup and by Aziraphale’s fascinating company. It was a lovely day, bright but cool, and he felt better than he had in years. He longed to grasp Aziraphale’s hand as they walked, but was afraid to make that kind of declaration before he saw some sort of blatant invitation from the other man. He was almost certain that Aziraphale returned his feelings of attraction, but he couldn’t assume. Aziraphale had a shyness and a cautious nature about him, that melted away swiftly when he was describing the things he loved (books, food, pastries, history, architecture) but that just as quickly settled back over his demeanor whenever there was a gap in conversation. As if he were constantly held under a nervous sort of spell which only broke when he was enthusiastic about something. 

That nervousness could mean anything. It could mean that Aziraphale saw Crowley as a new friend, but was anxious at the prospect that Crowley might make a move on him. It could mean that, just like Crowley, Aziraphale was holding himself back from getting closer, from touching more or saying more because he feared Crowley might not reciprocate (though how he could have ignored Crowley’s clear signals of interest was beyond Crowley). The nervous energy could also be due to Aziraphale being asexual. Perhaps this strange and charming man reserved all of his sensual urges for food and books, but didn’t enjoy sex? Crowley did not want to rush in and make a fool of himself. He also, if he were quite honest, felt like a blushing school boy around Aziraphale. This fear of rejection.. This uncertainty about the other man’s motives found its roots in decades old trauma and fear from past experiences.

These were new feelings Crowley was experiencing as he walked beside Aziraphale towards his gallery. These feelings, of tenderness, of passion, of curiosity and affection and lust that he felt towards this man he barely knew were powerful and their intensity was unsettling. He was at a loss for how to proceed without simply grabbing Aziraphale and kissing him, or pushing him up against a wall and grinding against him. He didn’t trust himself at this point not to make a fatal misstep without further information. Without some strong indication that his feelings were returned. And so he kept himself pleasantly aloof and respectful of Aziraphale’s personal space, and Aziraphale let him do so, keeping half a foot of empty air between them as they walked. 

Within a few minutes, they’d reached the doors of Crowley’s gallery and Aziraphale stared up with blatant admiration at the large sign hanging out front that read “The Dark Angel Gallery”. It depicted an image of a man with dark hair and broad dark, outstretched wings, standing with his head tilted down, hiding his face, hands clasped together, as if in prayer. The man was clothed in black robes, much like a toga, and he had dark red hair, curling about his down turned face in long ripples. “Did you draw that picture? The one on the sign?” Aziraphale asked, eyes bright as he turned to look at Crowley, and Crowley couldn’t help but grin at the awe on the other man’s face.

“Yeah I did. Do you like it?”

“I love it! You’re very talented indeed!” Aziraphale’s open enthusiasm made Crowley’s heart leap inside his chest and he preened just a tiny bit over the effusive compliment. 

“Thanks angel…” He opened the door. “After you” he said, affecting a gentlemanly air. 

Aziraphale entered and Crowley followed, wanting to gauge the other man’s reactions to seeing the gallery for the first time. 

The gallery was currently home to two different exhibitions. One of a young woman, just out of uni, who’s abstract watercolors were dreamy and indistinct, employing multiple layers of color that coalesced into strange patterns and barely discernible shapes. Crowley loved her skill at making the eye search for meaning among the profusion of bright, colorful whorls and loops and glowing mandalas. 

The other artist was a 35 year old father of two who painted landscapes, but instead of bucolic fields and pastures, he painted landscapes of different planets. Vast stretches of lunar hills dotted with dark dips of asteroid pockmarks stretched across one canvas. Swaths of red earth under a pale Martian sky colored yet another. Crowley was particularly fond of the artist’s multiple renderings of complex star systems through the application of thousands of small dots of white and silver and pink and gold paint. The pieces were stunning and must have taken untold hours to complete. Crowley was glad beyond glad to have the chance to promote these two artist’s works. He often chose to showcase the work of people who struggled in obscurity, or who did work that wasn’t quite in line with the latest trends.

Aziraphale wandered into the gallery as if in a trance… He was clearly impressed by the multitude of different canvasses he passed, pausing for a few minutes to gaze at each one before moving to the next. Crowley watched with a small smile on his face as Aziraphale wandered among the paintings, eyes grown soft with wonder, a small smile playing about on his lips. The other man hadn’t yet rounded the corner into the back room where Crowley was showing his latest mural, and he was a bit anxious to see Aziraphale’s response. He followed behind Aziraphale, keeping a slight distance, allowing him to experience each painting at his own pace, without chattering at him or asking his opinion. 

“Oh my Crowley!” Aziraphale breathed. “These are all so fascinating. So lovely. I must remember to spend more time in art galleries and less time searching for old books”.Crowley smiled at him, but stayed silent. 

Soon enough, Aziraphale rounded the corner into the room towards the back of the gallery that Crowley reserved for his own works, so as to keep from possibly taking attention away from the new artists he wanted to showcase in his semi-monthly exhibits. The blond man stopped in his tracks upon entering the room, and Crowley held his breath and waited for an indication of what Aziraphale thought of his work. 

Aziraphale wandered, silently further into the room, slowly looking around him at the profusion of frames hung along two walls of the room. There were multiple sketchings, all in black charcoal and pencil, all in intricate detail, all depicting scenes from ancient fairy tales and biblical stories. Devils with cloven hooves and sharp horns cavorted with wood nymphs among the curling ivy and crumbling stone of old temples. Mermaids with wide hips and small pert breasts and flowing hair tempted men in elaborate suits of armor on windswept jetties of rock, splashed by wild ocean waves. Angels wrestled with demons, the muscles of their arms and backs executed in minute anatomical detail, their faces shrouded in shadow as they gripped and twisted together in an eternal, frozen struggle. Good against evil. Light against darkness. 

Along the length of one entire wall, was a massive mural, depicting a story told in several large panels. It showed the journey of a young man from a small village, into the employ of a lord, and detailed his becoming a knight, showing him kneeling with a sword to his shoulder. The second panel showed him deep in the depths of a dark cave, beset upon by demons who tore at his hair and pulled at his clothes and scratched his skin with sharp claws and bared fangs. The final panel was of an older man, no longer dressed in the plain tunic of a squire, nor the elaborate armor of a knight, but in a dark modern suit, his face a shadowy representation of Crowley’s own features, standing half in and half out of a doorway through which a bright light emanated. 

The fourth wall of the back room stayed blank, awaiting his next mural. 

Aziraphale finally found the presence of mind to speak. “Are… all these yours?” He asked in an awed tone of voice. 

“Yup. All mine” Crowley said simply. He watched Aziraphale wander slowly around the room, gazing at each piece for far longer than he’d stood before those of the artists in the outer room. He was silent for a long time, and Crowley began to grow nervous, wondering if the other man were simply being polite by not telling Crowley that his work was not quite to his liking. 

Just as Crowley was about to sacrifice his dignity by prompting Aziraphale for his opinion, Aziraphale spoke. “Oh Crowley” he said in a soft, reverent voice, turning to face Crowley with a look of complete awe on his face “These are magnificent”

Crowley’s felt himself grow hot “You really like them?” he asked, trying not to sound like a besotted fool, longing for the other man’s approval.

“Like them? I adore them! They are truly unique Crowley! The intricate detail and the deep emotional content of your work it… well it’s otherworldly to say the least.” 

Crowley grinned broadly upon hearing Aziraphale’s praise and came over to stand nearer to him. “Glad you like them angel. I wasn’t sure if this was your cup of tea”

“It most certainly is. I’d love to purchase one if they’re for sale”

Crowley was taken aback. He hadn’t been prepared for Aziraphale to ask to buy a sketch. “Oh.. well… of course… that would be fine. Just give me some time to consider the price.”

“Wonderful! I’m afraid I’ll have to take some time to decide. They’re all so profoundly lovely”

“OK, now you need to shut up angel” Crowley was afraid his face had gone beet red, and he stared down at his shoes, overwhelmed by the flattering things this gorgeous man was saying about his artwork. “You’re going to give me a big head”. 

He looked back up in time to see Aziraphale smile and walk over to the mural. “Is this… is this you?” he asked “Is it a self portrait of sorts?”

“Yeah.” Crowley responded, suddenly feeling exposed. The mural was a metaphorical depiction of his life’s journey, replete with poetic representations of the horrible abuse he’d suffered in his own personal hell that was his relationship with Lucian, the prostitution and the concurrent drug addiction he’d suffered. 

“You’ve had some pain in your past then” Aziraphale said softly, turning to Crowley, who’d stepped up beside him again, still carefully keeping a couple of feet of distance between them. 

“Yeah angel. You could say that. Not really a topic for such a lovely afternoon.”

“Well, if you  _ do _ ever want to tell me about it, I’m here to listen”

Crowley’s looked over in surprise at Aziraphale, who was looking back at him with an expression of tender concern, and felt his breath catch in his chest. Could this man truly be as kind and caring as he seemed? Surely it had to be an act. No one could be this perfect. 

“Where on earth have you been hiding?” he asked, suddenly breathless, and saw a look of surprise flit across Aziraphale’s face upon hearing his words. 

Crowley, moved by Aziraphale’s kind words and feeling drawn in by a magnetic pull, stepped closer to Aziraphale, very close and looked down into his luminous gray-green eyes. His heart was racing, his palms sweaty, all admonishments he’d given himself to go slow and not to rush and to give Aziraphale space melted away instantly as he gazed into the other man’s beautiful eyes. He leaned closer, praying that he wouldn’t be turned away, his eyes searching Aziraphale’s face for signs of displeasure.. For any reason he shouldn’t lean in closer still.

_I’m going to kiss him. I’m going to kiss him_ _now _his scattered mind thought as he saw Aziraphale lift his face, saw the other man’s eyes drift down to rest on Crowley’s mouth. 

“Harold! Harold! Look at these! Aren’t they smashing?!” Their lips were mere inches apart when they both heard the woman’s loud voice, accompanied by the  _ thock thock  _ noise of a pair of high heeled shoes. A woman and her husband stepped into the room, looking around in wonder at Crowley’s work. Crowley jumped away from Aziraphale, almost guiltily, the mood broken by the woman’s brassy voice disturbing their romantic privacy. He shot a glance at Aziraphale to see him grinning, while blush number six painted itself fetchingly across his cheeks. 

“Excuse me gentlemen! Sorry to break up an intimate moment” She said, and let out a barking laugh, looking pointedly at Aziraphale and Crowley, who stood awkwardly together near the mural.  _ Not a subtle one, this lady. _

“Come on angel” he said in a gruff voice and a sly grin “Let’s get out of here”. 

“Oh yes.. Indeed.” The other man shook himself as if waking from a pleasant dream, and Crowley was pleased at how clearly flustered Aziraphale had been by his proximity. He daringly took Aziraphale by the hand, thrilling at the feel of their fingers effortlessly lacing together, and pulled him out of the room and through the gallery to the exit. 

Once they were back out on the street, Crowley dared to keep holding Aziraphale’s hand in his own and was overjoyed when Aziraphale not only let him, but gave his hand a gentle squeeze. Unable to help himself, Crowley felt joyful laughter bubbling up inside him and spilling out into the cool, late afternoon air. 

“What’s so funny?” Aziraphale asked in a smiling voice, a tiny touch of apprehension coloring his tone. 

  
“Oh nothing angel. Nothing at all. I’m just in a good mood. Are you enjoying yourself too?”

“Yes Crowley, very much” Aziraphale gave Crowley’s hand another squeeze and Crowley felt the spastic flutter of butterfly wings in his stomach that he hadn’t felt in a very long time. 

Then, seemingly unprompted, he felt Aziraphale swiftly pull his hand from Crowley’s. He looked up at Aziraphale in surprise and saw the other man looking further down the sidewalk in front of them. A young couple with a baby carriage were approaching. At first Crowley thought that Aziraphale knew the family, but when the three of them walked past without so much as acknowledging the man at his side, he made a few swift deductions about the situation. 

_ Aziraphale wasn’t out as gay _ . 

He’d seen the couple and their baby, not as people he  _ knew _ but as a representation of straight society. A perfect, modern family unit of man, woman and child. Probably representative of Aziraphale’s own family and the families that went to his church growing up.

Aziraphale wasn’t ashamed of  _ Crowley specifically, _ but he  _ was  _ afraid of being seen holding hands with a man in public. This realization made Crowley sad.. It caused a sudden dark cloud to drift over their perfect day together. “Hey” he said, stopping on the sidewalk and turning to look at Aziraphale. The other man stumbled to a stop and turned to look at Crowley, his face suffused with an anxious expression that Crowley hated seeing. 

“Hey” Crowley repeated, placing a hand on Azirphale’s shoulder “You’re not out are you?”

“Out?” Aziraphale sounded sincerely lost and Crowley groaned in further recognition of the size and scope of the issue.

“You don’t even know what that means do you?”

Aziraphale looked put out. “Should I?” he asked, his eyes full of confusion and anxiety. 

“When I ask if you’re out, that means are you open about being… gay” he said, suddenly feeling a bit awkward saying the word in public, in the face of Aziraphale’s obvious discomfort with it. 

“Oh!” he watched as reality dawned on the flustered blond man. He immediately dropped his voice to a lower register and stepped a bit closer to Crowley so as not to be overheard. “Oh, no.. no. I’m not. I mean, I’ve never told anyone if that’s what you mean.”

Crowley rolled his eyes in frustration. This was too public a place to have this sort of conversation. There were too many emotions involved. Too much at stake. He grabbed Aziraphale by the arm and steered him towards a local pub. It was dark and relatively empty inside at this time of the afternoon, with just a few dedicated patrons at the bar. Crowley pulled Aziraphale towards the back of the establishment and sat him down in a booth, sitting opposite him. When the waitress, looking disaffected and tired came over, he ordered a sparkling water for himself and a glass of red wine for Aziraphale. “But..” Aziraphale mumbled once she’d left “I don’t need a drink”

“Trust me.” Crowley remarked ruefully “You will. It’ll help with this conversation”

“Oh.” Aziraphale didn’t know what to say to that so he simply sat, looking at Crowley expectantly.

“So, you’ve never told anyone that you were gay before? No one? Ever?” Crowley couldn’t help a note of incredulity from creeping into his tone. 

“No.. should I have?” Aziraphale asked, obviously still confused. 

Now it was Crowley’s turn to look confused. “Well.. surely you’ve had relationships with other men.. Didn’t you have to tell your mother about that? Or your friends? What about at university?.”

Aziraphale’s face fell in a way that made Crowley wonder what he’d read into Crowley’s line of questioning. 

“Well you see Crowley.. I’ve never,.. Um… Well.. I’ve never had what you’d call a  _ relationship _ with anyone” he said in a soft voice. 

Crowley felt his mouth drop open in surprise, and he shut it with a snap. “Oh.” he said. Then, something occurred to him. “Are you… a … virgin?” he tried to make his voice sound kind and patient, but he was having trouble keeping his cool. His brain was racing and his pulse wasn’t far behind.  _ What am I supposed to do with a virginal fifty year old closet case? However is *that* meant to work? _ He thought in a minor panic as he watched Aziraphale look down at the table, where he’d clutched his hands, and was now nervously twisting them together. 

At that moment, the waitress returned with their order, and Crowley thanked her, then watched as Aziraphale downed half of his glass of wine in one, large gulp. 

“See?” he said. “Told you you’d need a drink”

Aziraphale took a deep breath and another sip of wine before continuing. “No. I’m not a virgin” he replied and Crowley felt himself relax just a little bit further into the stiff cushions of his seat. “I’ve...been with a few men here and there, only not many… and it’s always been a rather.. casual thing. Never lasting very long.” He sighed again, clearly having more to say, and Crowley waited patiently. “Never lasting more than a few minutes actually” Aziraphale finished, looking into his wine glass, his cheeks coloring with a blush that Crowley refused to add to the day’s official blush tally. 

“I always had to hide” Aziraphale continued, his voice pained and clearly uncomfortable with the subject, but wanting to get it out nevertheless. “I couldn’t let my mother know. I mean.. She must have known, but I couldn’t come out and say it.. explicitly. All my life, I’ve been told by her, by clergy and family that the way I felt was wrong. I learned to hide my feelings at a very young age. I pretended to be straight all through seminary school. Or rather, I didn’t reveal that I was gay. And ever since my mother passed away, there hasn’t been… anyone to speak of. Anyone who’d need to know” he finished, looking at Crowley through his lashes in a way that made him want to lurch across the table and grab Aziraphale and kiss him. 

But oh how this changed things. Aziraphale was innocent. Inexperienced. He probably knew nothing at all about the types of pain and the trauma Crowley had experienced. Or of the horrible things that Crowley had done.. That he’d had done to him. He was a sheltered, religious man with very little relationship experience. Crowley felt his stomach drop with the prospect that he might hurt Aziraphale. Crowley was so jaded and so broken and so afraid to love. How exactly could he show another person how this was done? What if Aziraphale judged him when he found out the truth, that Crowley had been used as a prostitute for his drug addict boyfriend. That he’d been raped repeatedly, that he’d done a plethora of very bad drugs.. That he’d been tempted to take his own life. How could this sweet, inexperienced bookshop owner ever hope to understand Crowley? To forgive him for his past?

Aziraphale must have seen the look on Crowley’s face, because his own face had grown very serious. “Are you alright Crowley? Did I say something wrong? I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was”

Crowley couldn’t bear to see Aziraphale’s sad look, and reached across the table to grab Aziraphale’s hand. “No angel. No. You haven’t done anything wrong. It’s just that…  _ I  _ might not be who  _ you  _ think I am.. And this… well this might not be such a good idea.” He gave Aziraphale’s hand a squeeze and reached into his pocket to pull out a wad of bills. Tossing them down on the table, he said “Come along. I’ll walk you home”

Ignoring the stricken look on Aziraphale’s face, he left the booth and walked through the pub and back out onto the street. Aziraphale hurried after him, catching up with him before he’d gotten more than a few steps from the front door of the pub. “Crowley!” he cried in dismay. “What do you mean it’s not a good idea?”

Crowley stopped and turned abruptly to face Aziraphale, then, not wanting to make a scene, pulled him into a side street. Once they were relatively alone, he removed his shades and folded them away inside his jacket pocket, then placed both hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders and looked into the other man’s worried eyes. “Look angel. I really like you. A lot. But you don’t know who I am… or about the things I’ve been through. The things I’ve done. I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want you to hurt me. Lets just call it quits before things 

get… get.. too mixed up”, he could feel sadness and fear rising up inside him in a sickening tide. Was this how it was fated to end for him always? Was he not able to ever give himself freely to another?

He didn’t know what he expected Aziraphale to do, but he was genuinely taken aback when the other man stepped close, swiftly took Crowley face in both of his hands and kissed him. Crowley made a small, helpless noise in the back of his throat at the feel of Aziraphale’s soft lips pressing tenderly against his own. His surprise was only momentary though before he felt his arms move to wrap themselves around Aziraphale’s waist and pull him in close. Aziraphale sighed and opened his mouth against Crowley’s and the kiss deepened. 

Crowley was utterly lost. Had he been speaking? What had he been saying? He wasn’t sure and he didn’t care. His world had narrowed down to the feel of Aziraphale’s soft mouth and hot tongue slipping delicately between his lips to brush gently against his own in tentative strokes, to the smell of the other man, the feel of him wrapped in Crowley’s arms. Sparks of pleasure were exploding all through him, especially where their lips met and mingled and where his pelvis was pressed up against Aziraphale’s.

After a few blissful moments, Aziraphale pulled away to gaze into Crowley’s eyes with a look so full of lust and deep emotion that Crowley gasped in surprise. “Please don’t turn me away Crowley” Aziraphale said, his voice soft and breathless “Please. I like you very much too.” 

Crowley looked into those bottomless gray-green eyes and felt himself falling, plummeting down into them. He should have been scared, and maybe in some small corner of his mind, he  _ was _ scared, of what might happen when he hit the proverbial ground. When this feeling stopped being heady and thrilling and profound and started being painful and anguished like he knew it most certainly would. But for now, he wanted to enjoy the fall.

“I’m sorry for freaking out angel” He said, reaching up to gently run his thumb across Aziraphale’s cheekbone. “I’m not used to this sort of thing. It’s been a long time for me.”

Aziraphale smiled at this, a smile that struck Crowley like a spotlight, and he felt his headlong tumble into love for this man increase in speed. “I’m not used to it either my dear. Maybe we could learn together?”

Crowley grinned and nodded “Lets walk back” he said, carefully, and with no small amount of will, disengaging himself from Aziraphale’s warm arms. If they stayed here, like this, Crowley would simply pull him into the closest private place and attempt to get him out of his clothes, and he wanted to maintain the innocence of this evening, of the delicate distance between them for a while longer. As long as he could. He’d rushed into every single romantic connection in his life up to this point, and this man, this fascinating, ridiculous, handsome man at his side was worth taking his time. 

They walked together back to the main street and turned in the direction of Aziraphale’s shop. After a few short moments, Crowley felt Aziraphale take his hand again. This time, he kept it there, despite the busy street they walked down, and Crowley felt pride and affection warring inside him at the feel of Aziraphale’s warm, soft hand in his own, calloused, ink stained one. 

When they got back to the book shop, Aziraphale executed blush number seven and asked if Crowley would like to come inside. It was dark now, and Aziraphale’s handsome face looked positively angelic in the light coming from nearby streetlamps and the golden glow emanating from inside the shop. It took all Crowley’s self control, (and he’d built up quite a bit over the past couple of decades), to politely refuse and say he needed to get home to wake up early. He curtailed Aziraphale’s disappointed look by leaning in and giving him a soft, lingering kiss on the lips, careful to pull away before either of them could deepen it. 

“Goodnight angel. I’ll check in with you tomorrow. Maybe I can see you again soon?”

“I’d like that Crowley. Tonight was.. Wonderful”

“It was. Goodnight”

“Goodnight”

Crowley got in his car and drove away, his heart feeling as if it had sprouted wings, with a huge smile plastered on his face. There was fear beneath the joy, but he pushed it away. He deserved something good didn’t he? After so many years of painful emotional work and of keeping himself carefully distant from others so as not to get hurt. Maybe the possibility of getting hurt was enough of a price to pay to be with someone like Aziraphale. Someone sweet and kind and loving. He sincerely hoped so. 


	7. Next Steps

Aziraphale woke up Sunday morning to two text messages. The first was from Newt:

“ **HELP! We need you! Please come over whenever you can! Ps. Bring chocolate and coffee. Eternal gratitude and hugs await!** ”

Aziraphale smiled knowingly. From the few friends he had kept in touch with after seminary school who’d actually had children, he knew that new parents were often walking zombies during the first few months after the baby arrived. 

The second was from Crowley, which of course made his pulse race as he opened the text. 

“ **Good morning angel ;)** ” 

He texted back to Newt first:

“ **Over in two shakes. Coffee and chocolate in tow** ”

Then back to Crowley:

“ **Good morning handsome** ”

  
  


He found himself humming a cheerful tune as he made his morning tea and started to put together a small bag of pastries he’d baked Friday evening as a gift to the Pulsifers. He was in a fantastic mood this morning, and he couldn’t quite stop thinking about the reason for his happiness. 

Crowley. Just the thought of the lanky, red haired man’s name made him grow flustered and hot. He kept replaying moments from their date yesterday and feeling little jolts of electricity sparking inside at the memories of Crowley’s lips against his, of Crowley’s hand holding his hand. He actually welcomed this trip to see Anathema and Newt and little Abigail, because it would give him something to focus on to keep from fantasizing all day about Crowley’s eyes and hands and mouth. 

And to be fair, completely separately from his need to be distracted from thoughts of Crowley, he’d been waiting expectantly for an invitation to see Abigail again. He could tell already that he was utterly devoted to this tiny new human. Her small red fist and soft little face had etched themselves into his mind, and he knew he’d move heaven and earth to help make sure she was safe and happy for as long as the Pulsifers would allow him. 

He’d always liked children, and children often liked him.. He had a way with small children and animals, both seemed to gravitate towards him and he had a calming influence on both. He wasn’t sure why. Come to think of it, people in general usually liked Aziraphale. He’d been very involved in charity work at his church before his mother’s death and the other parishioners had praised him for his dedication and his kindness. After he’d drifted from the church, he’d been more isolated, but the Pulsifers and the Youngs had been almost immediately charmed by him as well. He was a sweet man, a fascinating man, but a man who kept people gently at arms length. 

Others sensed this and gave him his space. Anathema though, didn’t seem to notice or care that he was slightly distant. She was very physically affectionate with Aziraphale, often hugging him, kissing him on the cheek and placing her hand over his. He soaked up the affection like a starving plant, seemingly able to accept it from special people who ignored his nervous boundaries and reached out to him first. They’d become very close over the past two years since they’d met, and he was endlessly grateful for his new friends. 

Soon, he’d gotten himself ready to leave and grabbing his tartan umbrella, the bag of pastries and the keys to his shop, he stepped out into the golden early October sunlight to head to the coffee shop down the way. He didn’t own a car. Living in the heart of Soho meant that he could walk or hail a cab or a bus to get anywhere he wanted to go. He stopped briefly in the cafe at the end of the block to pick up a package of very strong, dark ground coffee and a selection of their artisanal chocolates, then headed to catch the bus to the Pulsifer’s small house in the suburbs. 

When he arrived, Newt ushered him gratefully inside with an awkward, sideways hug. He had some sort of mess down the front of his shirt and his eyes had dark circles under them. “Thank all that’s holy that you’re here!” he exclaimed, gratefully escorting Aziraphale to the kitchen. “We’re exhausted and starving and I know we said to give us a week, but we were fools, because we need you  _ now _ .”

“Ah. Well, I’m delighted to be here!” Aziraphale hung his umbrella over the back of a kitchen chair and put his coat on a hook by the door. “I’ll make us all some coffee and put out the sweets shall I?” 

“How about you move in here with us? That would work for your schedule wouldn’t it?” Newt winked and went off down the hall to attend to Anathema, who was apparently still in the bedroom with the baby. Aziraphale set about putting the pastries out on a plate and started a pot of extremely strong coffee. Soon, the sound of a baby crying, (or perhaps a newborn pterodactyl? The noise was quite loud) drifted to him down the hallway. He walked back to the Pulsifer’s bedroom and peeked in. He saw Newt, holding baby Abigail, who at this point had really started to scream, her tiny face, bright red, her tiny fists flailing about as her father bounced her gently up and down, making shushing noises. Anathema sat on the bed, looking utterly exhausted in a flannel dressing gown, her hair a mess. 

“Hello” piped Aziraphale, over the sound of screaming Abigail. “Anything I can do?”

“Here!” Newt gently thrust the screaming baby into his arms. Aziraphale, surprised, but not displeased, quickly placed a hand on the baby’s bottom to support her, wrapped his other hand around her tiny back and snuggled her against his shoulder. The crying ceased instantly, to be replaced by happy gurgling. Both parents looked at him in mild shock. Aziraphale smiled back at them, adopting Newt’s gentle bouncing motion as Abigail continued to gurgle and coo. 

“You’re a miracle worker” Anathema breathed, still gaping at Aziraphale with awe. Newt nodded.

“I’ve already asked him to move in. We can build him a little bedroom off the kitchen and he can make us pastries and babysit.”

“Don’t tempt me” said Aziraphale with a broad smile. He loved the feel of this small, warm body resting against his shoulder, the smell of her babyness and the sound of her little gurgling noises. “I’m already head over heels for this little lady”.

Anathema clambered out of bed “Is that coffee I smell?” the sound of relief and gratitude thick in her voice as she stumbled out of the bedroom and down the hall towards the kitchen. Aziraphale and Abigail followed, with Newt after them. Soon everyone was settled around the kitchen table with coffee and pastries and chocolates. The table had been littered with used dishes, food wrappers, containers of baby wipes and crumpled up paper towels that they swept out of the way. Anathema popped a pomegranate filled dark chocolate truffle into her mouth and sighed happily, washing it down with a cup of coffee so laden with creme it was almost white. “You” she said to Aziraphale around a mouthful of chocolate goo “Are a godsend.”

“Oh it was the least I could do” he said with a happy grin, readjusting Abigail against his shoulder. She burped gently into his ear and sighed before settling in, her little head lying against him. 

“Dear lord” Newt gasped, his hand pausing on it’s way to grab a strawberry filled croissant. “Is she.. falling asleep?”

“She just may be” Aziraphale replied in a soft voice, leaning back to attempt to get a look at the baby’s small face. “I seem to have a calming influence on animals and children. Doesn’t work on adult humans. Not sure why. When I was a boy, I could coax birds to land on my hand and eat seeds out of my palm.”   
  
“That’s marvelous!” exclaimed Anathema, being careful however to keep her voice low enough not to wake the tiny, limp form currently dozing against Aziraphale’s chest. “I will pay you any amount of money to come here and let her sleep on you”.

“No need. You couldn’t pay me to stay away” 

“So Aziraphale, now that you’ve seen the abject mess our lives have become, what’s new with you?” Newt asked, his mouth half full of flaky pastry. 

It was a common question, and one Aziraphale was usually happy to answer, but this time, he had something challenging and very new to report, and he wasn’t sure how his friends would take it. He’d never, as Crowley called it, “come out” to anyone (other than Crowley) before. But, after looking back and forth between them, at their expectant, tired yet caring faces, he decided now was a good a time as any.

“I um… Well… I met someone.” He said, looking down at the plate of pastries in front of him, suddenly bashful. 

“Ooooh” Anathema said. “Oh. OK. That’s wonderful!” She was clearly taken aback after two years of friendship and no mention of any romantic partners from Aziraphale. They hadn’t discussed it. It was part of Aziraphale’s carefully constructed boundaries.. The one’s Anathema couldn’t charm herself past. The apparently tight laced, proper veneer that he kept in place at all times didn’t welcome questions about messy things like love or sex. Once, a few months after they’d begun talking, Anathema had probed gently as to whether or not Aziraphale was seeing anyone and was met with a downcast glance and a swift. “No one. No.” and had picked up on the discomfort surrounding that line of inquiry. She hadn’t pushed since then.

So to have Aziraphale offer up that he’d met someone was… big news probably. Newt also looked impressed. They both sat patiently and waited for him to say something else, clearly not wanting to pry.

“We… met at the hospital, while I was waiting for this little one to arrive” Aziraphale prepared to spit out the pronoun and continued. “He’s, um, he’s a gallery owner and an artist. And we just got to talking and.. Well. We went out together yesterday.” He finished, a bit lamely, waiting irrationally for his friends to launch into a lecture on how homosexuality was a sin against god, knowing that neither of them were Christian and that both of them adamantly supported gay rights. 

“Oh Aziraphale that’s. Well that’s just lovely!” Anathema said, her eyes getting a little shiny. “What’s he like?” She asked, absently reaching for a cheese danish. 

“Rather sexy in fact” Aziraphale replied and Anathema dropped the danish in her surprise. 

“Oh my! Well, that’s a good thing!” She giggled a bit with her hand to her mouth and actually blushed. “I’m sorry Aziraphale, I’m not used to hearing this stuff from you.” She glanced briefly at Newt. “We thought you might not go in for that sort of thing. No disrespect meant.. You just never talked about it.” 

“I didn’t. You’re right” he admitted.

At that moment, little Abigail stirred and woke, leaning back from Aziraphale’s shoulder so that he had to bring a hand up to support her back. She fixed him with a wobbly, sleepy look, then promptly spit up down his shirt. 

“Welcome to the family!” Newt exclaimed

_____________________________________

Later, after Aziraphale’s button down shirt had been washed (he borrowed one of Newt’s jumpers while the washer was running) and Abigail had been put down for another nap, Anathema pulled Aziraphale into the back garden for a chat. 

“So” she said “you’re gay? I don’t mean to be blunt. I’m just curious.”   
  
“Yes… I am.” Aziraphale responded, feeling a weight lift from his shoulders at the freedom to discuss this subject with a close friend. “Only, I never had a reason to talk about it before. You’ll think me insufferably prudish and provincial, but I’ve never really had a… “ What  _ did _ a 50 year old man refer to as a romantic involvement? ‘Boyfriend’ seemed juvenile. ‘Partner’ seemed too business like. 

“Beau” he finished.

“A Beau?” Anathema couldn’t hide the laughter in her voice, and Aziraphale looked down and felt his face grow hot. 

“Look here young lady” he countered with a fake scolding tone to his voice “Don’t disrespect your elders. Especially when they use words last employed in public circulation during the pleistocene era”. 

“So” Anathema pressed “What’s he like? What was your date like?”

Aziraphale’s face only grew hotter and he couldn’t help grinning like a fool. “Oh he’s simply marvelous! Very handsome. Very intelligent. An amazing artist. He owns a gallery across town and he’s very funny and he seems to like  _ me _ very much, heaven only knows why”

“Aziraphale!” Anathema was suddenly quite cross looking and Aziraphale stopped, mid gush to look at her with surprise. “Why wouldn’t he like you? Don’t talk that way. Everyone likes you!”

“Do they?” Aziraphale was genuinely confused. 

“Yes! Newt and I love you very much and so do the Youngs, and everyone who comes into the bookshop is endlessly charmed by you. I’ve even had a couple of friends, male  _ and _ female ask if you were available. I just didn’t want to be pushy, so I didn’t bring it up. You’re a gorgeous man and a lovely person.” Her eyes were fierce, and she was gripping him by the shoulders now and looking into his face intently. 

Aziraphale was shocked. “R-really?” He stammered. “I. I thought I was rather plain and stuffy and that you and Newt were simply very friendly people who happened to like me, but I wasn’t sure why.”   
  


“Oh Aziraphale” Anathema’s eyes were suddenly full of tears, which surprised him. 

“Oh my dear! What did I say to make you cry? I’m ever so sorry”

“No, no no you silly man. You don’t get it do you?” She shook her head in disbelief. Then wrapped him into a fierce embrace. He hugged her back, still somewhat confused at the display of emotion. She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes “You’re beautiful Aziraphale. Beautiful and insanely lovable. How can you not see that?” 

Aziraphale felt his mouth fall open in surprise. Anathema seemed so fervently genuine in her insistence that he was handsome.. That he was wanted and liked. “Well… no.. I suppose I don’t see myself that way” he said. “But.. thank you for saying so."

“Oh you dear, dear, blind man” Anathema finally released him to wipe at her eyes and take a deep breath. “Sorry for the theatrics. Postpartum emotional fluctuations and all. But seriously dude, (her Americanisms were rather charming sometimes) you’re flat out gorgeous and one of our favorite people. You need to realize that.” 

“Well alright. Thank you my dear. You’re ever so kind to say so.”

“Your new… beau.. He realizes this too I hope? If he doesn’t, or if he mistreats you, he’ll have an angry mob to contend with”

“Oh yes! Though he’s not my beau yet. Not officially. We’ve only ever just… kissed” he said, flushing again and looking at an indistinct spot over Anathema’s right shoulder. 

“Oooh a kiss huh? Nice! Still, he’d better treat you right or I’ll hex him. Sorry… postpartum.. Very emotional.”


	8. Johnny Hastur

Crowley woke up Sunday morning smiling. He hadn’t woken up smiling in quite a while and it was a nice change. He’d been dreaming of Aziraphale. A dream that was both touching and arousing, involving the other man running fingers gently through Crowley’s hair and kissing him on the forehead. It was an innocent action, but it still caused Crowley to wake up with a raging erection. A situation he remedied quickly by pulling himself to a surprisingly strong orgasm while picturing Aziraphale doing far more than kissing his forehead. 

Afterwards, when he’d had a hot shower and gotten dressed for the day, he sauntered into the kitchen of his austere flat to make some tea and scrounge for breakfast. He rarely kept any food in the cupboards being that he often ate out with clients and friends and didn’t eat much to begin with, but there was a box of not-ancient biscuits in the cabinet and he munched on a few while drinking his tea and perusing social media. 

After 30 minutes or so, a text came in from Johnny Hastur. 

“ **Hey Crow-boy, I’m in the neighborhood. Let me in** ”

He called Hastur’s phone and the other man was indeed only a few blocks away, so Crowley let him up. Hastur was a slender man in his late thirties. He had a mop of pale blond hair, that Crowley was almost certain was kept at an ashy gray color with very expensive visits to the salon. His eyes were so dark brown that they were almost black. He was handsome in a way, but had suffered from serious bouts of spots in his youth and had pock marks on his cheeks and across his forehead. He dressed in muted tones and shuffled a bit when he walked, always seeming to avoid the attention of others, his insecurity written plain in his movements. He was part shy wall flower, and sometimes part braggart, in the way of people struggling to prove themselves worthy to others could often be. But he had a sly sense of humor and a way of always being around when Crowley needed someone to talk to.

Crowley welcomed Hastur in and offered him a cup of tea. Hastur turned his nose up at the tea, but reached for the box of frosted biscuits with interest. “What’s new pussycat?” he asked, eyeing Crowley suspiciously. “You look happy today”

“What’s wrong with that?” Crowley grinned widely

“Nothing at all. Only you’re usually a grump so I wondered what changed”

Crowley looked at the shorter man with his tight gray t-shirt and mop of ash blond hair, artfully quaffed into casual looking ripples, as if he’d just gotten out of bed. Would he understand how Crowley felt? That Crowley was falling rather swiftly in love with a hopelessly unfashionable, fussy bookshop owner? Probably not, but why keep it a secret? Part of him knew why though. Part of him knew that he had outgrown this particular group of friends a long time ago and though they’d been there for him through a very rough period of his life, that they were shallow, capricious, vain and self destructive. Just significantly less self destructive than Lucian. Crowley though could no longer use “better than Lucian” as a standard for people he socialized with. 

Additionally, he was almost certain that Hastur had been harboring an unrequited crush on him for a long time. Fifteen years ago, in a moment of weakness, Crowley had tumbled into bed with Hastur. He’d been lonely and horny and Hastur had been attractive and available, and it was fun, but empty. The next day when Crowley put his walls back in place and pushed Hastur back to arms length again, he’d seen a deep look of hurt cross Hastur’s sharp features. He felt bad about leading the man on, but back then, back when his self esteem had been a shredded mess and his moral compass had been spinning aimlessly, he’d struggled to make good decisions. It was all he could do to continually choose _not_ to do drugs and alcohol. He had precious few resources left over to devote to deep consideration of who to sleep with and who to stay away from. 

He took a deep breath and plunged ahead regardless. “I went out with that bloke from the hospital.” he said, mentally preparing himself for an adverse reaction from Hastur. 

He was not to be disappointed. 

“You what?! You went out with  _ that _ bloke? But Crowley, he's such a pillock!"

“He’s not.” Crowley’s voice was soft, but held a note of threatening anger in it that stopped Hastur in his tracks. “He’s actually quite amazing. I think this might turn into something serious”

Hastur was not done complaining. “But Crowley… I mean.. He’s so … prissy. I really thought you’d have better taste.” a look of offended disgust painting itself across the other man's features.

“Listen here” Crowley was angry now and in no mood to hear Aziraphale maligned. “He’s fucking fantastic and I don’t recall asking you for you opinion, so perhaps you could shut the fuck up ok?” 

Hastur’s face had gone from surprised to offended and now had settled somewhere between cold anger and a sullen pout. Crowley could tell he’d upset his friend, but he didn’t care. He wouldn’t stand to hear him mock Aziraphale. Just because Aziraphale dressed strangely and didn’t have a hairstyle showcased on one of the many reality television shows Hastur was obsessed with didn’t mean he wasn’t everything Crowley had ever wanted. 

An awkward silence descended between them, with Crowley pinning Hastur with a look that dared him to continue trash talking Aziraphale. After a few more seconds of icy silence though, Hastur apparently decided to offer an olive branch because his face broke into a sly smile and he asked “Did you shag him yet?”

Crowley grinned despite himself and punched Hastur in the arm. “No you pervert. I’ve decided to take it slow with him. He’s… old fashioned.”

“Yeah. No shit” Hastur replied with a grimace which Crowley decided to ignore. “What does he do for a living? School teacher to Mennonite kids? Make candles from scratch? Oh I know! He’s a door to door bible salesman!” 

Crowley grinned despite himself at the almost-accuracy of Hastur’s guesses. “No you git. He owns the bookshop over on Baker street. You know that massive old red building?”

“That place?! No shit!” Hastur seemed lost in thought for a moment, then he eyed the box of biscuits with disdain “Lets go get some real food” 

“Fine.” Said Crowley. Might as well, he had the day off anyway. He closed the Gallery on Sundays to give himself some downtime. And the other days of the week, the place virtually ran itself. His assistant, Mary helped as a hostess to greet people who wandered in off the street and with any art purchases and Crowley stopped by a few times a day to see if she needed anything. The real work happened behind the scenes in setting up exhibitions and installations and in communicating with new artists. “Lets go to the cafe down the street.” He said, Following Hastur to the door. “I like their tea”

____________________________________________

Hastur followed Crowley down the street to the cafe, struggling to maintain his pleasant facial expression. It wouldn’t due to have Crowley catch him scowling over the news that he’d started dating the ridiculous buffoon from the hospital waiting room. Hastur was jealous.. More than jealous. He was  _ enraged. _ How was it that some hopelessly tacky, old,  _ fat _ bookshop owner was getting Crowley’s attention when Hastur, young...well, youn _ ger _ anyway, and stylish couldn’t get Crowley to take a second look.

Hastur had been barely twenty two when Crowley had finally succumbed to his several, pointed propositions for sex back, fifteen years ago when they’d met. Now, though he was in his late 30s, he had taken relatively good care of himself and was proud of his appearance. He had no lack of attention from men in the bars and clubs he frequented, who loved the contrast of his ash blond hair with his near black eyes and his compact, muscular frame. Attracting men was not Hastur’s problem. Attracting  _ Crowley _ was Hastur’s problem. That night spent wrapped up in Crowley’s arms had changed Hastur, had tipped him over from a crush into a deep, longing infatuation for the mysterious, older man. Crowley had seemed (and still did) full of dark poetry and emotional depths that fascinated a man like Hastur, who’d basically spent much of his life struggling to hold down a real job and drinking in clubs far too often. Hastur, who’d spent his childhood struggling for attention in a house full of rowdy children, and finally finding it when he’d snuck into a club as a teen and had been stared at on the dance floor, had been propositioned by older men at the bar. 

Hastur knew that Crowley was out of his league. A devastatingly handsome artist with a dark past and a calm, relaxed nature that made Hastur vibrate with desire whenever Crowley was near. Crowley, and the desire Hastur harbored for him made Hastur feel small and insignificant and ignored, the way he’d felt ignored by his mother as a child, and he couldn’t help but strive for more of Crowley’s attention. Some patterns never fade. Crowley had responded by treating Hastur like a little brother.

It had been different back when Hastur had succeeded in pulling Crowley into bed with him. Crowley had been less sure of himself, more easily manipulated. The sex had of course been consensual, but Hastur had been uncomfortably aware that had Crowley been less shaken up by his recent breakup with his psycho ex.. If he’d had his wits about him more, that he might very well have turned Hastur down. Hastur had struck while the iron was hot as it were, fearing he’d never get another chance to get close to Crowley.

His fears had been realized rather swiftly when, the next morning, Crowley had crept out of bed and out of Hastur’s shabby, rented room without a word or a note, and had artfully dodged all of Hastur’s needy questions about the nature of their “relationship” until Hastur had settled for a stiff friendship with Crowley. The friendship had grown more comfortable (to Crowley anyway) over the years, and Hastur had learned to keep his yearning, and the resulting bitterness to himself when Crowley failed over and over to respond to his rather obvious hints and overtures Eventually, Hastur had stopped trying. 

The only thing that made his unrequited obsession with Crowley manageable, was the knowledge that Crowley was broken in the romance department. Everyone in their group knew it. Crowley had one night stands. He shagged random men here and there when someone struck his fancy, but he never fell in love. He never let the men stay. And so Hastur could console himself with the knowledge that Crowley could never love anyone. Not since he’d escaped his fucked up ex, Lucian. This meant that it wasn’t personal, and allowed Hastur to maintain his friendship with Crowley, almost without revealing his feelings. 

He knew Crowley could tell that Hastur was a bit hung up on him. How could he not? But Crowley clearly had no idea the depths to which Hastur burned for him. If he did, he wouldn’t have let Haster get as close as he had. Hastur made sure he had always been available when Crowley felt lonely and needed someone to talk to. When Crowley had wanted a shoulder to cry on. When Crowley wanted company to go out to a bar and pick up a new boy. Hastur was always there, ready for him. Secretly hoping that his chance would come again. 

But now? Now his chance was blown to smithereens. Crowley was clearly interested in the bookshop owner, in a way he’d never expressed before. Why? Haster couldn’t see it and that bothered him. That the thing that Crowley wanted was invisible to him. That he’d completely missed Crowley’s burgeoning attraction for the stupid blond man in the stupid bow tie rankled at Hastur, for it meant that the younger man was completely out of touch with what Crowley wanted in a partner. 

Hastur sipped at his coffee and kept his face carefully neutral as Crowley went on and on about how fascinating Aziraphale was. _Aziraphale.._What kind of name was that anyway? He sounded like a biblical character. Or some sort of foreigner. Hastur hated Aziraphale’s stupid, old fashioned bible name just as much as he hated the ludicrously outdated way he dressed. Probably trying to come off as some sort of posh, hipster type. Ridiculous. 

“He was raised really religious, but he’s not stuffy like most church people. And he’s got a good heart. And he...well he likes me back. I don’t know Hastur, I think he’s someone special. I .. I hope so anyway”

Every word felt like a knife in Hastur’s heart. Eventually, he had to fake receiving a text and beg off, saying a friend needed to talk to him, so he could duck out of the cafe and escape the joyous look on Crowley’s face when he talked about Aziraphale. 

He walked a few blocks, blood singing in his ears, scalp burning, breath coming fast and ragged, stricken with a bout of jealousy so strong that he found himself imagining doing harm to Aziraphale. Taking him out of the equation so that he didn’t have to face Crowley’s feelings for the other man. He knew he wasn’t prone to violence, that these were just fantasies brought on by the breathtaking fear and anger he was feeling. But still. There had to be some way to stop Crowley from getting together with this ridiculous church clown. Hastur couldn’t bear the thought of Crowley happy with that ridiculous fool. 

And all of a sudden, it was there. The vague outlines of a plan. He’d known Crowley for a long time. For almost two decades now. He knew all of Crowley’s dark secrets… all the gang did. He knew all the bad things Crowley had done and all the things he’d been forced to do. 

Aziraphale on the other hand, probably didn’t know. Not yet. You didn’t spill that sort of truth to someone you liked on a first date. And even if Crowley  _ had _ confessed his past to Aziraphale, Hastur still had a backup plan. It had to work. Hastur’s sanity and happiness depended on it. He could handle Crowley not loving him. He just couldn’t deal with the possibility of Crowley loving anyone  _ else. _

Hastur stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and willed his feet to change direction, to take him back a few blocks and down a side street and over a main thoroughfare. Towards Aziraphale’s bookshop. 

He’d see how understanding and kind and good Aziraphale would be once Haster was done talking to him. He felt a humorless grin creep its way across his face as he walked.


	9. Judas

Hastur arrived at the shop and was glad to find it open. He heard a bell over the door clang as he entered and then stopped, unable to help himself from gazing around in awe at the massive profusion of books he saw before him. Books lined shelves against all the walls, and on special shelves that crept up over the windows and over the tops of doorways. They stretched up towards the high ceiling of the massive, old shop. And besides the many many shelves, in rows that also lead back deeper into the building, there were display tables, full of books. And besides _them_ were stacks upon stacks of books that had either yet to be shelved, or perhaps that there was no spare space to shelve. 

He didn’t immediately see Aziraphale. There were a couple of other people in the shop, looking through the countless shelves, but the man wasn’t visible from Hastur’s position by the door. He stepped further into the shop, still a little overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of books surrounding him. He walked down a couple of aisles, rounded a couple of corners and finally found Aziraphale, standing with his shirt sleeves rolled up, with a book in his hand, scrutinizing the shelf in front of him.

Hastur arranged his features into what he hoped was a cautious yet friendly expression and approached the other man. 

“Hey.. Aziraphale is it?” he queried, watching as the man turned to look at him with large, blue green eyes. With a start, Hastur realized that the man was actually quite handsome, a fact that didn’t make his anger and jealousy any less intense. If anything, he felt his hatred for Aziraphale increase. “Hey mate. I don’t know if you remember me from the hospital, but I’m Crowley’s friend.” 

The way Aziraphale’s face lit up at the mention of Crowley’s name gave Hastur even more motivation to do what he was about to do. “Do you have a minute for a quick chat?” he asked, smothering his resentment for the man.

“Oh.. well..certainly. Let me finish finding a home for this book and I’ll be right with you.”

Hastur rolled his eyes inwardly at the unbearable prim, proper way the man spoke and moved. Still, there was something about him that Hastur was picking up on. A certain charm that Hastur loathed to admit he could sense about the other man as he watched him search for a quick moment to find the right spot to shelve the book in his hand. It made Crowley’s interest in Aziraphale make more sense to Hastur. And that made his bitterness grow even deeper. 

Aziraphale slotted the book into a nearby shelf and then motioned for Hastur to follow him. He lead Hastur to what looked like a small back sitting room area, with a small kitchen, an armchair and a sofa. Aziraphale sat down in the armchair and motioned for Hastur to take a seat on the sofa. 

“Oh my! Nearly forgot to offer you some tea. Would you care for a cup?”

“Nah mate. I’m fine” Hastur replied, taking a seat on the end of the sofa nearest Aziraphale’s armchair and leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner. “I just got something I need to talk to you about, and then I’ll be on my way.”

Aziraphale looked taken aback “Oh, alright then. His brow knitted and he asked in a worried voice “Is this about Crowley? Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Well… as fine as he’ll ever be I suppose.” Hastur replied, affecting a look of beleaguered sympathy. “I only wanted to come here to give you a warning.”   
  


“A warning?” Now Aziraphale sounded a bit alarmed and Hastur grinned inwardly. 

“Yeah mate, a warning. I don’t know how much Crowley’s told you about his past..”   
  
“He hasn’t said much” Aziraphale looked truly concerned now. “I was waiting for him to tell me about it when he was ready”

“Oh…” Hasture replied, making sure to sound taken aback, letting a hint of surprise creep into his tone. “Oh. I don’t know if you want to wait too long to find out about his past there mate. I had a feeling he wouldn’t tell you right away, and you seem like such a sweet bloke, that, well I was afraid of you going in unprepared to this whole… Crowley  _ situation _ ” He paired his words with what he was certain was a look of pained sympathy and concern. 

It seemed to have the desired effect, because Aziraphale’s face had gone a bit pale. “Whatever do you mean? Look here, I don’t think it’s right that I hear personal things about Crowley from someone other than him. It would feel… disingenuous.”   
  


“Well see” Hastur continued, “I’m afraid you probably won’t actually hear … the  _ real _ truth from Crowley himself. He’s something of a… well, I’ll just spit it out.. He’s a pathological liar.” Seeing the alarm blossoming across Aziraphale’s handsome features, Hastur pressed his advantage of surprise and quickly added “He lies all the time. To everyone. Me and the other blokes know this, and so, we take it with a grain of salt. He’s gotten really good at it over the years, and sometimes, he even fools us”

“No. You must be mistaken” Aziraphale’s face was bloodless now. Hastur inwardly rejoiced. 

“He’ll tell you that he had an arsehole boyfriend, that didn’t treat him very well, but he might not tell you that… he..” Here, Hastur paused for effect and placed a hand on Aziraphale’s knee, as if in support, and felt Aziraphale flinch away from the touch. It didn’t matter. He had him now. “ That he was a prostitute for drugs back in the day”.

“A.. a prostitute?” Aziraphale asked faintly.

“Yeah.. He did a lot of shagging for money so he could afford the drugs he was hooked on. I’m so sorry to break it to you like this mate. I know it’s hard to hear, but, I was pretty sure you wouldn’t hear it from Crowley, so, I wanted to warn you.”

Aziraphale was silent, his mouth working as if he wanted to speak, but nothing was coming out. To Hastur’s surprise and dismay though, he saw a sympathetic look make its way over Aziraphale’s pale face. He’d expected the stuffy, old fashioned man to be horrified, but the man feeling sorry for Crowley? Sympathy for the fallen man Hastur was describing to him?  _ Jesus Christ, the man really is a saint _

"Well, really, that's not something that matters anymore" Aziraphale had found the wherewithal to speak apparently. "I'm not sure why you'd need to tell me that. I could have waited for Crowley to do so on his own" His tone had started to sound affronted and Hastur felt a moment of uncertainty.

It was clearly time to drop the hammer on the chances that Aziraphale would ever want to go near Crowley again. “There’s more unfortunately.” Hastur continued. He even managed to make his eyes grow misty as if with sympathetic tears as he spoke, to make his voice sound thick with sadness. Hastur had always been good at faking emotions. It helped him get what he wanted. Unfortunately, that didn’t work on Crowley. It was clearly working wonders with Aziraphale though.

“More..?” Aziraphale’s voice had grown dull and flat. He looked shocked. Hastur knew he was close to achieving his goal. 

“Yeah mate. And again, I hate to have to tell you this.” Hastur felt triumph bloom in his heart as he let his crocodile tears crest the lower lids of his eyes and tumble down both cheeks. The effect would be extremely convincing to a simple, trusting bumpkin such as Aziraphale. “I think it’s only fair to warn you though mate that he’s playing with you”

“Playing with me? Wha-Whatever do you mean?” 

“He can’t love you. He can’t love anyone. He’s very free and easy with his affections, but romantic love? Nah. He’ll sleep with anyone at the drop of a hat, but he won’t commit.” Seeing Aziraphale’s eyes tear up was probably the sweetest thing Hastur had ever witnessed. He was certain that he’d thoroughly scared Aziraphale away from Crowley at this point, but he wanted to hammer the last nail in a bit deeper, just to make sure. “Why only last night I saw him chatting up some thin young thing in a club round the way.” He made sure to put a slight emphasis on the word  _ thin _ and was rewarded with a broken look from Aziraphale and a sharp intake of breath. 

“H-he… you can’t ... How?” The poor man was reduced to a stuttering mess. Hastur placed what he hoped was a warm, reassuring hand on Aziraphale’s arm and watched as the other man’s eyes filled up with tears. He put his own head in his hand, as if he were just as upset as Aziraphale, but really it was to hide the hint of a smile that he couldn’t help from playing about his mouth at the sight of his plan working so well, and spoke through his palm, making sure that his voice sounded thick with emotion.

“I know mate. I know. It’s hard to hear. But you seemed like such a nice bloke. I really didn’t want you to get hurt. And if you get involved with Crowley, well, that’s the only way it’ll go. Believe me” he added, raising his watering eyes to give Aziraphale a look he hoped conveyed commiseration and pain “I should know”

He saw Aziraphale’s tears well up and fall down his now bloodless cheeks, saw the man bring a well shaped hand to his mouth to stifle a sob and felt his heart leap with glee. He’d done it! He’d ruined any chance of them having a relationship! Now, when Aziraphale most assuredly rejected Crowley, Crowley would be heartbroken, and he’d crawl back to Hastur for comfort. Hastur had to work hard to suppress his glee at how flawlessly his plan had been executed. 

“Look mate, I have to get going. If you bring this up with Crowley, he’ll only lie to get out of it. He’ll tell you I’m making it all up. And god, how I wish I were.” He swiftly rose from his seat and patted Aziraphale on the shoulder in what he hoped felt like a reassuring gesture. “Don’t be too upset mate. Just thank your lucky stars you found out before things got too serious.” And with that, he walked away, leaving a shell shocked Aziraphale, still sitting, numb and lost looking in his armchair. 

Hastur felt a sick sort of triumph as he sauntered out of the shop and down the street, back towards his flat. The feelings of bitterness and jealousy that spurred him towards the bookshop in the first place had faded into the background, to be replaced with a feeling of smug happiness over how well his plan had been executed. He couldn’t wait to find out that Crowley had been rejected by his perfect new boyfriend and would have to come crawling back to cry in Hastur’s arms. 

He knew he couldn’t tell Ligur or Dagon or Beezie about this. They were simple lads who saw Crowley as a brother. They’d never approve of Hastur’s deceit. Might even tell him, warn him. So he’d keep it to himself. 

He felt a bounce in his step as he walked down the street, warmed by the memory of Aziraphale’s look of shock and grief. 

  
  


____________________________________________________

Aziraphale was numb for a few moments after Hastur left. He heard the bell above the door ring as the younger man exited the bookshop as if from a million miles away, and simply sat in his chair, reeling from what Hastur had said, unable to move. He felt tears coursing down his cheeks in hot tracks to drip off his chin and onto the fabric of his shirt. 

Crowley.

His beautiful, passionate, mysterious, fascinating Crowley. A liar? A capricious liar?

The part about Crowley’s past, about him selling his body for drugs didn’t concern Aziraphale. In fact if anything, it made Aziraphale care more about Crowley, made his heart ache in sympathy. But the lying, and the unfaithfulness...that was truly, deeply disturbing. Heartbreaking. Aziraphale could almost literally feel his heart breaking in his chest at the thought of Crowley using him for pleasure and then running off after someone younger, .. someone thinner and _better_. 

He had a sudden, strong urge to call Crowley. To ask to meet him, and ask him to explain all this, but then… what if he  _ was _ a pathological liar? What if he couldn’t trust a word Crowley said? What if Crowley was really playing with him and didn’t really care for him at all? 

Aziraphale had sworn he’d seen something deep and tender reflected in Crowley’s pale, amber eyes yesterday after they’d kissed on the street near the gallery. But perhaps he’d just been projecting? He had no real experience with romantic, intimate relationships, let alone sex… let alone the types of things people who regularly had sex might do. Lying. Cheating. Casual flings. These things were all foreign to Aziraphale. The things people hid. The things they let show. He’d seen representations of these relationships in television programs, but hadn’t ever experienced them. Aziraphale only knew that he had been falling in love with Crowley before Hastur had come to the shop and dashed his hopes against the rocks. 

And he knew of only one person who would understand his situation. He got out his phone and called Anathema. 


	10. Hope

Anathema opened the door to a red eyed, miserable looking Aziraphale and quickly ushered him in. “The baby is asleep and so is Newt” she whispered. “Would you like something to drink? Tea?” She took another look at his face “Whiskey?” Aziraphale nodded swiftly at the mention of hard liquor and so Anathema bustled to the kitchen to fetch a bottle a shot glass. She pressed them into Aziraphale’s hands and let him out into the back garden, stopping quickly to grab her coat on her way after him.

The two settled themselves at the small, wrought iron table in Anathema’s garden, perched on small, cold, metal chairs. The evening was chilly, but not bitter. Anathema quickly poured Aziraphale a shot, clinked the bottle against Azirphale’s glass in a toast and gave him a soft, sympathetic look while he knocked back the burning liquid. Immediately afterwards, she poured him another, and Aziraphale gratefully drank that one as well.

Afterwards she simply waited, calmly and patiently for him to speak. He sat forward with his elbows propped on his knees, chin propped on his hands, staring out into the dark garden with an unspeakably sad look on his face. Anathema reached over and placed a warm, reassuring hand on his shoulder and felt the muscles of his back hitch as he started to cry. 

“I had a visit from one of Crowley’s friends today” he said in a miserable voice

“Did you sweetheart? What did they say?” She asked gently, bracing herself for bad news

“He said that he wanted to warn me about Crowley. That he’s actually a liar and a cheat and that he didn’t care about me at all.”

“Oh Aziraphale! That’s horrible! You didn’t believe him did you? I thought you said Crowley was a lovely person. What kind of friend spreads gossip like that??”

Aziraphale only shot her a watery look, his face contorted with anguish. “I’m pretty sure it’s not gossip,” he said. “This friend seemed very genuine. He even got emotional.. Seems I’m not the first person to get involved with Crowley where it ended badly. He told me to spare me suffering with the same fate” he sniffled and looked pointedly at his empty shot glass.

Anathema was taken aback by this news. She poured him another shot and Aziraphale gladly took it. “What did he say exactly?” She asked, once he'd finished.

“He said Crowley used to be a prostitute for drugs. That he had a horrible ex that ruined him for romantic love. That he plays the field and can’t commit to anyone. That he’s… he’s a l-liar who can’t tell the truth.” Aziraphale was crying in earnest now. 

“Oh sweetheart. That’s horrible. But you don’t know that it’s true until you see proof.”

“P-proof?” Aziraphale took the clean but rumpled tissue that Anathema offered him from her coat pocket and noisily blew his nose. “What sort of proof?”

“Well…” Now that Anathema had brought it up, she wasn’t quite sure. “You’d need to hear from someone else that agrees with this friend of his. Or you’d need to see an indication that he plans to drop you after he… um.”  
  


“Has sex with me,” Aziraphale supplied, sensing that Anathema wasn’t sure how explicit Aziraphale was prepared to be on this subject. 

“Did his behavior to you on your date indicate in any way that he was only in it for the short term?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment. “Well… no. In fact, he sort of tried to end it before it even got started”

Anathema couldn’t help her shocked tone “He _ what_?”

Aziraphale continued “He found out that I wasn’t very.. experienced and that I hadn’t ever come out to anyone as.. gay, and he said he didn’t want to hurt me and that maybe it was best to end it before it began.”

“Well, that doesn’t necessarily sound like something a player would do” Anathema paused, thinking for a minute. “How did you respond?”

“I.. well, I grabbed him and kissed him.” Aziraphale was smiling through his tears at the memory of how forward he’d been and Anathema was struck for the hundredth time by his beauty. She felt anger and sadness mixing inside her at the thought that anyone would manipulate or hurt her sweet, angelic friend. 

“Look at you!” She knocked her shoulder against his companionably. “That deserves another shot”. As she poured, she asked “How did he react?”

“He said he was sorry for being mental and that he really liked me”

“Aziraphale, I gotta say, this doesn’t sound like the behavior of a guy who only wants to sleep with you and take off afterwards”

“Really?” Aziraphale’s voice was soft and hesitant, the hope blooming in his tone broke Anathema’s heart. 

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but usually, guys who just want casual sex don’t bother panicking and trying to reject their conquests for fear of hurting them. They tend to be pretty single mindedly focused on getting you into bed as soon as possible. Did he try to get you into bed?”

Aziraphale’s wan smile grew larger. “No… no he didn’t” his voice was gaining surety now “In fact, I asked _ him _ if he’d like to come inside after our date, and he turned me down. Said he had some things to do.”

Then, he paused, thinking, and his face darkening again. “Oh no” he said, “Hastur.. That’s the friend’s name… Hastur said he went out last night and was seen chatting up someone else at a pub.. Someone young and th-thin.” fresh tears were gathering in his eyes and Anathema wished to everything she held dear that she could stop them from spilling down his cheeks. That she could make his pain go away somehow. 

“Aziraphale! You have to talk to him. You have to. Bring it all up and see what he says. A liar will immediately do whatever he can to maintain his false innocence. He’ll bad mouth this friend of his and swear up and down that he’s untrustworthy. If he’s telling the truth though, if he really is crazy about you like it seems he is, he’ll be shocked. He won’t know what to say. He’ll be genuinely upset. Because, you see, if he doesn’t actually have a history of lying and cheating, there won’t be a well worn back up plan for him to use. Honest people don’t instantly react with deflections and character assassinations of their accusers. They’re taken aback...they’re confused. Does that make sense?”

“Yes.. yes my dear it does” Aziraphale was impressed by Anathema’s insight.

“Actually, that’s all Newt” Anathema said with a sly grin in response to Aziraphale expressing his gratitude. “He was studying to be a psychologist as a backup for his IT degree. Since he’s not great with computers, he ended up reading a _ lot _ on psychology. And he had a brother with Borderline Personality Disorder. He’s had some practice with tricky emotional situations.”

“Well then, please convey my thanks to your lovely husband for his insights” Aziraphale’s tone had already lightened considerably and a small smile was making a reappearance on his tear stained face. “Alright then, I’ll ask to see him and talk to him about this whole.. mess. I just hope you’ll be available for me to weep on your shoulder if it all goes pear shaped” he grinned at her and she slung a warm arm around his shoulders. 

“Aziraphale, Newt and I ...and little Abigail, we will _ always _ be here for you. I hope you'll consider us family”

This brought on more tears.. Happy ones this time. She offered to let him spend the night, seeing as he'd caught the bus all the way out to the suburbs for this little chat, but he declined, saying it was worth the trip to know he was cared about and supported and for her insight. They stood and hugged and she saw Aziraphale to the door. “Please let me know as soon as you talk to him” She asked, and he nodded in agreement. They hugged again, tightly, and she bid him goodbye, hoping in her heart of hearts that Crowley was in fact a good man, so that her dear dear friend could find happiness with someone who deserved him. She’d found her own little family, and she longed for Aziraphale to finally bask in the love and affection she knew he richly deserved. 

Time would tell. She silently sent up a prayer to Gaia that all would be right in the end


	11. A Step Back

Crowley was thrilled to see Aziraphale’s name come up in his text notifications. He’d been battling the urge to text Aziraphale all day. To say something silly. To send him a goofy picture or simply ask how he was. He didn’t want to seem too eager. Had felt so unsettled by his feelings for the other man that he’d ended up not sending anything. And so seeing a text come in from Aziraphale, seeing the other man take the initiative was exciting. He tapped on the notification and saw a string of words that made his blood turn to ice water

“ **We need to talk. When are you free?** ”

Those words had never precipitated anything good. Not in Crowley’s experience.  _ We need to talk _ usually meant  _ I’ve changed my mind _ . At least it did on the few occasions Crowley had communicated it to someone he meant to reject. He felt a plume of fear curl inside his stomach.

He texted back with trembling fingers “ **I’m free now. Where are you?** ” Might as well get this over with. 

“ **Meet me at my shop if you can** ” No “handsome”, no “dear” accompanied the text message. Crowley thought perhaps he really might throw up. His stomach was twisting uncomfortably and he’d broken out into a cold sweat.  _ I knew it.  _ He thought.  _ I knew it was too good to be true _ . He didn’t deserve love like the kind he’d thought was possible with Aziraphale. He’d be haunted by his past, by Lucian’s villainy for the rest of his life. There was something broken inside him, and Aziraphale had somehow seen it and had been repulsed. Now it was time for the other man to break it to him gently. The thing that he always knew, deep down must be true, despite his confidence and skill as an artist, despite his looks and his fancy car. That Crowley was unlovable. 

“ **I’ll be there in 15** ” he texted back. Then he grabbed his car keys and headed out, his heart feeling like a brick in his chest. 

______________________________________________

He pulled up to the shop to find Aziraphale waiting for him, outside the front door, a grave look on his face, hands clasped in front of him in a nervous fashion and Crowley’s chest grew tight and his mouth went dry with dread. He parked and slowly got out of the car, standing by the driver’s side door for a minute, regarding Aziraphale, wanting to keep the physical presence of the vehicle between them for a moment, as if for protection. He was greeted with a wan, half smile, which was so unlike the man he’d grown to know, the man he’d been falling in love with, that he almost got back in the car and drove away. Almost ran like the coward he knew he was deep down inside.

But he didn’t run. Instead he willed his leaden feet to make their way over to Aziraphale. “Hi” he said in a flat, hollow voice. 

“Hello Crowley” Aziraphale’s tone was a mix of anxiety and cool detachment. He lead Crowley into the shop without touching him. No hug. No peck on the cheek. Once the door was shut behind them, Aziraphale turned the closed sign out towards the street and locked the door. Not wanting to be disturbed. Of course not. What if Crowley made a scene when Aziraphale broke it off with him?

“Would you like some tea Crowley?” Aziraphale asked, his eyes sad, still trying to be a good host, despite the unsavory task he’d apparently set for himself. 

“No thanks. Lets just get to it shall we?” Crowley responded, voice emotionless, face carefully arranged in a neutral mask so he didn’t let Aziraphale see the anguish he felt inside. 

Aziraphale looked a touch surprised at his words, but turned and lead him towards the back of the shop. Even through his misery, Crowley was impressed at the sheer enormity of the number of books held within the shop’s walls. He’d never seen so many books in his life. His eyes wandered up the walls and across the long rows of shelves as Aziraphale led him to a small sitting room where there was a kitchenette, a shabby looking sofa and an overstuffed armchair. Aziraphale took a seat at one end of the sofa, and Crowley, carefully keeping his distance, sat at the other end, his hands on his thighs, too nervous to lean back into his normal, languorous pose. His heart was racing and his palms were sweating now. 

“Crowley… I… I’m not sure how to say this” Aziraphale began. 

“You’re done with me” Crowley interrupted in a sharp voice. “It’s alright Aziraphale. I can tell where this is going”

Aziraphale looked taken aback “well, no.. not exactly. I, well, I have some uncomfortable subjects to bring up, and I’m afraid I don’t know how you’ll react”.

“Best to just spit it out” Crowley growled, really wanting to get this over and done with so he could move on with the business of having a broken heart. 

Aziraphale sighed deeply. “Alright then. I received a visit from a friend of yours yesterday.”

“You what??” Crowley was genuinely shocked. “Which friend?”

“Hastur” Aziraphale responded, and Crowley’s confusion only grew. 

“Why would Hastur come see you? That.. that doesn’t make any sense.”

“He.. well Crowley, he told me some very disturbing things about you”

Crowley felt his stomach lurch and his breath come quicker. “What did he say? Come on angel, you’re scaring me now”. He realized he’d used Aziraphale’s pet name and mentally kicked himself. 

“That.. that you had a very.. Well a very complicated past involving drugs. And that.. That you only planned to use me.. And that you were a l-liar” Aziraphale spoke in a nervous rush, while looking down at his hands.

“He _what_?? H-He said _WHAT?”_ _Hastur! That little shit_. Crowley knew he was raising his voice, but he didn’t care. The look of wounded apprehension on Aziraphale’s face made him feel sick. He stood up in a rush and began pacing about the back room of the shop, rubbing his hand over his face and up through his hair. “What _exactly_ did he tell you Aziraphale?”

“Well” Aziraphale’s voice was small and weak “He said that you c-can’t be in any sort of serious relationship. That you planned on sleeping with me and leaving me. That you were out at a pub, after our date.. Chatting up someone else.” 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” Crowley swore sharply, then, upon seeing Aziraphale’s flinch, “sorry angel. Sorry. I just. I can’t believe he… I. For  _ fuck’s sake _ ! Why would he do something like that?”, he felt rage bubbling up inside him.

“Is it true?” Aziraphale’s voice held a world of pain and fear and Crowley suddenly pictured himself throttling Hastur. He whirled around and walked over to where Aziraphale still sat on the couch and sank down beside him, removing his dark glasses and tossing them behind him on the sofa. Aziraphale turned wide, blue-green eyes on him, his mouth pale, his brows knit in anxiety. Crowley gripped Aziraphale by the shoulders and looked deep into his eyes, hoping beyond hope that he could make the other man believe him.

“Of  _ course  _ it’s not true. Of course not angel. I..” he paused for a minute, considering his words carefully. He felt fear fluttering up inside him at the thought of expressing his feelings to Aziraphale this early in the game, but was at a loss of how else to convince him. If they’d had more time. Time to get to know each other, time to let these feelings develop, Crowley would be able to protect himself. To ease into a deeper connection. But Hastur had ruined that chance. 

Or had he? 

“Angel” He started again “Aziraphale. Yes, I do have a pretty sordid past. I wish I’d had the chance to talk to you about that in my own time, and we can get into it later if you want to. And I don’t expect you to believe me right now. Hastur told you I was a liar right? Well then I’ll do whatever it takes to convince you that I’m  _ not _ a liar… that I.. that I.. care about you. Very much.” he felt his voice tremble and he hated how flayed open and vulnerable he felt right now, but he saw Aziraphale soften slightly at his words. “I wasn’t at a pub the night after our date. I went straight home and went to bed alone. I. I know you can’t believe me right now, and that’s OK. It doesn’t matter. I’ll wait until you  _ do _ believe me.”

Aziraphale’s anxious look had eased significantly at Crowley’s words, but there were still shadows of pain and doubt in his eyes that Crowley hated. Almost as much as he now hated Hastur. “I don’t want to believe him” he responded. “I, I care about you too Crowley. I.. only.. If you were playing with me. If you saw me as just a conquest..It would hurt me very badly.”

“Of course. Of course. You don’t have to worry angel. Let’s slow this down. I don’t expect you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. I want to earn your trust. Let’s just get to know each other. Let’s take our time. I swear to god that I have no intention of using you. Jesus.. How could I..how...” he felt himself stutter to a halt as he gazed into Aziraphale’s luminous eyes. He felt suffused suddenly with an all consuming desire to gain this man’s trust. This sweet, considerate, ridiculous man with his wild hair and his sad eyes and his antique sensibilities. He wanted nothing more than for Azirpahale to trust him again. 

“Yes, yes. That would be good. We can go slow” Azirpahale’s tone was warming up. “I hate to doubt you Crowley. I.. I like you very much too. But under the circumstances, I agree that friendship is best. It’s just that I have no experience with...all this. I don’t know what to think. I’m afraid of being hurt.” He looked down at his hands again for a moment and then back up into Crowley’s eyes and Crowley recognized a glimmer of renewed affection in their storm colored depths. “I’d like to get to know you better anyway. And you should get to know me better as well.”

“Yes. I’d like that” Crowley said fervently, relief blooming inside him like a golden flower. He gave Aziraphale’s shoulders a gentle squeeze and dropped his hands into his lap, feeling deflated and shaken, but hopeful. He would wait as long as it took to earn back Azirpahale’s trust. He rose awkwardly to his feet and Aziraphale did as well. They stood for a minute, facing one another, unsure of what to do next. 

“I need to go” Crowley said softly. “Can I see you again soon? Maybe you can show me more of Soho’s best restaurants? No rush though. Whatever you feel comfortable with”

“Yes, I’d be happy to” A small, tentative smile tugged at the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth and Crowley felt hope leap again inside his chest. He extended a hand and Azirpahale.

“Friends?” he asked

“Friends” Aziraphale agreed, grasping Crowley’s hand and giving it a firm shake. Crowley gave him a weak smile and sauntered away down the aisles of books and let himself out of the shop. He had a mission now. To find Hastur and confront him. To find out why he’d done what he’d done. And of course to earn Aziraphale’s trust again. He knew, deep in his heart of hearts that he’d wait as long as it took to win Aziraphale back. The cautious, old fashioned man was the best thing that had ever happened in Crowley’s life, and that was worth any amount of waiting. He’d stay away from the clubs, he’d be celibate and chaste as a priest, wouldn’t kiss any other lips but Aziraphale’s. Wouldn’t touch anyone’s skin until he could splay his hands lovingly across Aziraphale’s skin. 

He was pretty sure he knew where to find Hastur, and so he got back into his car and peeled out, headed in that direction, letting storm clouds of cold rage build up inside him at his friend’s deception.   
  
___________________________________

After Crowley left, Aziraphale went to his kitchen and made himself a cup of mint tea to soothe his nerves. He felt far better than he had after Hastur’s visit, but his doubts still lingered. Mainly because he was such a naive and inexperienced man where matters of the heart and desires of the flesh were concerned. Crowley had seemed genuinely shocked by the news that Hastur had  wanted to believe. The mere sight of Crowley’s slim, black clad frame, his amber eyes, even under these highly charged, negative circumstances made Aziraphale’s pulse race and his temperature rise. Crowley did things to him, made him feel things that woke Aziraphale up in places he didn’t even know had been lying dormant inside him. He feared that even if Crowley  _ were _ a liar, that Aziraphale might gladly let him take advantage of him when the urge to touch the other man, to be near him became overwhelming. 

He didn’t trust himself around Crowley, and so it was difficult to trust his instincts around Crowley’s true motives. 

He sighed deeply and took a sip of the fragrant tea, and tried to focus on a new book he’d bought at a curbside sale the other day, but his eyes kept slipping blindly over the words on the page as his mind drifted back to Crowley’s anxious face, Crowley’s pale eyes gazing earnestly into his own. 

  


____________________________________________________

A text from Anathema 

“How did it go? Want to talk?”

Aziraphale called her immediately

“It went well, .. I think”

“What did he say?” Just the sound of the American woman’s warm, supportive voice on the other end made Aziraphale’s blood pressure drop, made him feel safer.

“He seemed genuinely surprised and shocked that his friend would say those things, and then he got really angry.”

“At you??”

“No..no.. At his friend”

“That sounds good Aziraphale. If his friend were telling the truth, his shock wouldn’t have seemed genuine at all, because he’d have practiced it quite a bit to deal with his reputation”

“He promised to earn back my trust. He said we can go as slow as I want. He wants to get to know me and stay friends for a while”

“Oh! That’s very promising! That’s awesome! And lets face it, nothing wrong with getting to know each other better before.. “

Aziraphale smiled at the suggestion in her voice. “Yes.. yes. Quite right. It would be a lot easier perhaps, if I didn’t want to throw myself at him so badly”

Anathema’s musical laugh spilled out through the earpiece of the phone. “Try to contain yourself for a little while longer there Romeo.”

“Of course.. Of course. I want to be sure I can trust him. He’s so attractive, so worldly. He could be anyone underneath all that flash and style. I… just don’t know” Aziraphale felt himself grow wary again at the thought of how glamorous and slick Crowley appeared in comparison to his own frumpy sensibilities. 

“This all sounds very good Aziraphale. Very good. I think you’ve done the right thing by slowing down. And he really doesn’t sound like a lying Lothario to be honest. Just be safe and go slow”

“I well dearest. Thank you for being there for me through this”

“Nowhere I’d rather be.” 

Aziraphale could hear a high pitched squawking noise in the background “Duty calls?” he guessed

“Yup! My little pumpkin is ready for teatime. Text me if you need me.”

And with that, she disconnected, leaving Aziraphale feeling warmed and supported.


	12. Confrontation

Hastur sat at the bar in his favorite pub, rewarding himself for a job well done with a frosty pint and smirking inwardly at the success of his little endeavor. Aziraphale’s face had been a mask of shocked pain at hearing Hastur’s description of Crowley as a liar and a user. He’d gambled on the fact that the soft, stilted man would be insecure about his status in Crowley’s estimation and he’d apparently been right on the money. All it had taken was an artful nudge to push Aziraphale over into insecurity and fear. It was almost too easy.

He heard the door to the pub open, and footsteps coming towards him and assumed it was another patron until Crowley grabbed fistfuls of his shirt and pulled him bodily off the stool where he’d been sitting. The taller man dragged Hastur down the hall and slammed him up against the wall next to the loo. He shoved his face, suffused with rage, into Hastur’s face and hissed through clenched teeth

“ _ Why the fuck did you do that? What the fuck is wrong with you?! _ ”

“Crow-boy! Hey! What are you talking about mate?” Hastur’s heart was in his throat. He hadn’t known Crowley was capable of this kind of anger, having gotten used to Crowley’s cool detachment over the years. He felt certain that denial and evasion were the best tactics under the shock of the situation he found himself in. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Don’t fucking lie to me Hastur! You told Aziraphale that I’d hurt him. That I was a liar. Tell me why you did it!” He wasn’t wearing his shades, which was rare, and Hastur was distantly awed by the fierce beauty of Crowley’s pale eyes, sharpened with rage. Even now, even with the man pinning him to the wall, full of anger for Hastur, he couldn’t help but feel a pull towards Crowley. A longing he’d been cultivating in a petri dish of bitterness and resentment for almost two decades. But overriding his bitter love for Crowley was fear. He knew he’d messed up, and now Crowley was onto him. He had nowhere left to hide. 

“I… I.. well, I wanted to warn him. I just knew that... you’d use him and cast him aside. Like you did with all the other men.” Hastur gulped and summoned up his courage “Like you did with me”

“Oh? Oh! Is that it is it? This pathetic crush you’ve had for me all these years?” Crowley’s mouth twisted cruelly and he bared sharp, pointy incisors at Hastur in a grim rictus. “It’s time you got over that Hastur. If it would help, you should know that you  _ repulse me. _ I fucking hate you for what you’ve tried to do, you little  _ worm. _ You almost ruined my one true chance at real happiness. You can  _ rot in hell _ for all I care” And with that, he released Hastur and stalked off without another word, leaving the other man, still leaning against the wall, numbly watching him leave. 

Hastur’s numbness soon gave way to a cold rage. He felt the muscles in his legs and arms twitch with the urge to go after Crowley, to attack him, punch that pretty face of his and pummel him with fists, fueled by the anger he felt boiling up inside of him. He could do it too. Crowley was strong, but slender and lithe. He hadn’t spent all those hours in the gym like Hastur had. Had only lifted pencils and pens and teacups for years. But he held back. Outright violence was not in Hastur’s lexicon of coping mechanisms. Deceit however, was. So was manipulation. He’d find a way to pay Crowley back for the years of rejection. For the unforgivable crime of not loving Hastur. For loving someone else instead. 

He’d bide his time and think on it. Allow himself to stew in his bitter anger for a while as he did so. But Crowley would pay for rejecting him so cruelly. 


	13. Floating Objects

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the lovely comments! They bring me joy in a way that's frankly indecent. I love them all.
> 
> The artist described in this chapter is a real person who's art is fantastic. I'd recommend googling him if my descriptions of his art are interesting to you. His art makes me angry that I'm poor.

Aziraphale saw a text come in from Crowley at 9am two days later, and felt the usual thrill of excitement as he hit the button to open the message. If he were honest with himself, he’d been thinking of little else than when Crowley would reach out to him again. He’d decided to leave the ball in Crowley’s court as it were, to see what the other man did now that they’d agreed to slow things down. A part of him had feared that the whole situation with Hastur had scared the other man off. 

“ **When can I see you again?** ” the text read

Aziraphale’s heart rate sped up and his face grew hot. How was he supposed to keep their relationship a platonic one when just those six simple words had him trembling with anticipation. 

“ **When are you free? Care to take a trip to the museum?** ”

The response came back within 30 seconds

“ **I’m free today. Can I pick you up? I promise to drive like a sane person** ”

Aziraphale smiled

“ **Yes, please pick me up if you would. Noon? We could perhaps go to dinner after? My treat this time** ”

“ **I love the prospect of free food. See you at noon”**

Aziraphale noticed the word “angel” wasn’t included in Crowley’s texts this time.

He was dressed and waiting for Crowley outside by quarter to. This time, he left the bow tie at home, preferring a simple, white button down and cream colored vest, paired with slate gray trousers with cream pinstripes and his usual cream colored jacket with a gray scarf, as it had grown chilly.

He thought of himself as looking frightfully modern, and then Crowley had pulled up, in his sleek, black car, and had unfolded himself out of the driver’s seat and upon seeing him, Aziraphale realized he’d been mistaken. Crowley, with his dark red shirt and tight black pants and supple high boots with laces going up to mid calf. His hair was loose this time, falling in dark red waves, almost to his shoulders. He of course had on a pair of sunglasses, this time with thin red stems, their dark circles covering up his beautiful eyes, making his angular face unreadable. His shirt was unbuttoned to mid chest and the skin it revealed was smooth and pale. Aziraphale was suddenly finding it harder to breath. 

“Hello Crowley” he squeaked out, his voice going up a couple of octaves in a way that he felt was far too telling of his inner thoughts. Crowley smiled a lopsided smile as he rounded the car and opened the door for Aziraphale to get in 

“Aziraphale” he said, in a voice like velvet. “You’re looking dapper this evening”

“Thank you, thank you dear” Aziraphale stammered, feeling himself flush as he settled himself in the passenger seat of the car. Crowley closed the door gently and walked around to the driver’s side. Once he was settled and they both had their safety belts on, Aziraphale dared to return the compliment. “You look very nice as well” he managed to get out and was rewarded with another lopsided smile.

“Nice huh?” Crowley’s voice was laced with sarcasm, but a gentle sort without bitterness. “That’s probably the first time someone’s called my look ‘nice’, but thanks”

Inside the car, he could smell Crowley’s cologne and feeling him so close, seated within touching distance, he was already starting to regret the pact they’d made to stay friends. 

Also, this was shaping up to be a very date-type situation. Aziraphale swore that hadn’t been his intent when he’d invited Crowley out, but It was hard to ignore that they were both dressed in a rather posh manner and going to a museum and then to dinner. The way Crowley had opened the door for him, the exchange of compliments on each other’s appearance. It had a decidedly romantic feeling. As Crowley accelerated (at a perfectly reasonable speed) into traffic, Aziraphale reminded himself that there was a good reason they’d slowed down, had stepped back from the brink of something more physical. That he wasn’t sure of Crowley’s motives. He reminded himself that he was hopelessly naive when it came to sex and romance. That Crowley had all the experience in the world, and then some, and that he couldn’t trust himself around this man. 

Aziraphale was only now seeing a healthy and loving romantic relationship up close in his friendship with the Pulsifers. His own father, Frederick Fell had been a hard worker of few words. He’d spent his days as an electrician, coming home late with burns on his hands and scuffs on his knees to drink beer after beer in front of the television. This may have been one of the reasons Aziraphale had gotten so close to his mother, because his father’s presence had been minimal, grumpy, distant, until the day he’d left for work and hadn’t come home, leaving Aziraphale as his mother’s only loving connection. Aziraphale could still hear his mother’s quiet sobbing from behind her closed bedroom door for weeks after his father had disappeared.

In school, he’d had a small group of friends. Mostly very academically inclined, and not all that interested in dating. He wondered now, looking back, if a few of them might also have been gay. Seminary school had not been a hotbed of romantic action. All Aziraphale knew of love was that it was pure when shared between friends and family members. That the love he’d felt (still felt) for his mother, the love he felt for Newt and Anathema, Deirdre and Arthur and Adam was strong and steady and uncomplicated, but that the minute sex became involved, it became awkward, stilted, and doomed to failure. He knew rationally that this wasn’t so. He could see people walking around in pairs, wearing wedding rings, going on dates, pushing baby carriages all over the city, but in his heart, he’d never seen an example of a happy, healthy, romantic relationship.

Until Newt and Anathema that is. They were very much in love and very affectionate. Anathema would tease Newt gently and his cheeks would colour. He’d grab her and kiss her at random times in the kitchen or in the hall when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see, or didn’t care if he did. Their eyes when they looked at each other shone with obvious, unabashed love, and Aziraphale was willing to bet that their sex life was probably enjoyable, if the sly hints he got from Anathema were any indication. Arthur and Dierdre too appeared to have a happy marriage, though one that had cooled off considerably with time. But two couples does not a pattern make. And Aziraphale still had a heart full of fear and confusion where sex and love were concerned. 

He wasn’t confused about the way Crowley made him feel however. The longing, the intense pull he felt towards the other man was undeniable. Thinking about Crowley made his body react to such a degree that he’d had to keep his thoughts away from the man while in public for fear that he’d embarrass himself be becoming erect at the wrong time. He’d only met Crowley less than a week ago and already he’d attended to himself several times while thinking about Crowley’s soft lips and light eyes and narrow waist and what might lie underneath his tight dark clothing. No, sexual attraction was definitely  _ not _ an issue. 

And as for emotions that went beyond sex? Aziraphale knew he was falling for Crowley. He’d never been in love before, but the signs were undeniable. The urge to take care of the other man. To shelter him. To protect him. The way he couldn’t stop thinking of Crowley continually during the day. The way the sight of him made Aziraphale’s pulse race and his temperature rise. Yes, he was falling. Falling into the unknown of these intense new feelings. He couldn’t know if Crowley felt the same way. He seemed to, but he also seemed cautious, nervous. Wounded? He came on to Aziraphale strongly one minute, then tried to end their connection before it began the next. Clearly the man was struggling with something. 

And… What if Hastur had told the truth? That was still the question knocking around inside Aziraphale’s brain when he caught himself fantasizing about getting closer to Crowley, which he was dismayed to realize was quite often during the intervening two days since last seeing him. That fear was still there. Crowley hadn’t ever denied the fact that he’d had a lot of loose connections, that he’d never had a committed relationship outside of this mysterious ex. And really, even if Hastur were the liar and not Crowley, Aziraphale was afraid that he’d disappoint Crowley with his inexperience. It was best to get to know the man on other levels, considering that physical attraction was already more than taken care of. Why rush?

_ Because you’re finding it hard to hold back. That’s why  _ his thoughts supplied the obvious explanation. He was pulled like a magnet towards the slender, red haired man. And he wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to fight it, even if Crowley  _ did _ plan on dropping him the minute they had sex. 

It was a gray day, the clouds hanging low over London as Crowley drove them towards the Tate Modern Museum. He’d suggested the location as he wanted to see an exhibit of one of his favorite artists. An American man, whose work he was very fond of. Aziraphale was glad to go along to the proffered museum and curious to see the work of someone who could impress an artist as talented as Crowley. 

Soon they’d parked, chatting amiably about art in general, and the artist Crowley wanted to see in particular, Rye Tippett, who’s work Crowley was clearly very impressed with. They checked their jackets and wandered into the museum, looking about at the many pictures and murals that decorated the walls. Crowley walked near Aziraphale but let him have his space. 

Aziraphale noticed that Crowley’s shirt had three quarter sleeves and that a delicate, ornate tattoo of a black and red snake wound its way up the other man’s left forearm, it’s tail disappearing somewhere out of view under the fabric of his dark red shirt. Aziraphale was a little taken aback. He didn’t spend a lot of time with men who got large tattoos. Or men who wore earrings. Or men who wore pants so tight that he felt himself making a conscious effort not to admire their hips and arse and long legs. Everything about Crowley was uncharted territory and it made Aziraphale hunger for exploration.

He wandered over to where Crowley was standing, in front of a large painting of colorful geometric shapes. “May I see your tattoo?” he asked

“Sure” Crowley rolled his sleeve up further and Aziraphale leaned over to inspect the intricate details of the snake that coiled its way around Crowley’s forearm. It must have taken hours to complete, because the scales of the snake, fading from black to reddish brown at its belly, it’s yellow eyes, were incredibly well rendered. “You like it? I drew the design” he said, in a voice slightly colored with pride.

“You did? Why it’s fantastic! I must admit though to have very little experience with tattoos. Did it take long?”

“It took three visits to complete. Three hours a visit. By the end of it, I decided I’d never want another tattoo again. Some tough guy I am”

“Braver than I” Aziraphale remarked before thoughtlessly reaching out a finger to trace the design of the snake on Crowley’s arm. He felt the man tense beside him at the physical contact and drew his hand away swiftly, realizing he’d done an intimate, physical thing, had stroked Crowley’s skin with his fingertip. But even that small touch had supplied him with the feeling of Crowley’s silky smooth skin that he doubted he’d be getting out of his mind anytime soon. 

“Well!” He exclaimed a bit too loudly. I do rather like your tattoo. Which of these are your favorite artists then?” Desperately wanting to change the subject and draw attention away from the moment of decidedly  _ not _ friend-type touch.

“I like Ellen Gallagher quite a bit, and the Romare Beardan exhibit is interesting…” Crowley launched into descriptions of some of his favorite pieces. They continued to walk around the museum, with Aziraphale stopping before paintings he liked and asking Crowley his opinion. 

Eventually, They made their way to the Tippet exhibit. Azirpahle was duly impressed. The man’s specialty was large, fantastical pieces. Most featured wintery looking landscapes with fallow cornfields or lonely stretches of beach. Small, white farmhouses houses dotted the horizon, and often small, ghostly smudges of human figures appeared among the dark copses of trees that were featured in the middle ground of several of the paintings. Above these landscapes, at the center of many of the pieces, floating in the air, as if impossibly freed from the laws of physics, loomed massive oil tankers, steam liners, large dirigibles. Train cars, double masted pirate ships. All floating lazily through the dark branches of trees, as if they weighed nothing. The effect was ghostly. 

Mixed in with the massive vessels were charming paintings of animals. A sleeping lamb with a clover flower floating above her peaceful form. A bull with curling white and rust colored fur, his eyes closed and rosy red apples floating in a pattern around his horned head. The artist clearly loved pieces involving weightless objects and lonely fields. It was deeply moving work. Aziraphale could see why it appealed to Crowley, being that Crowley favored the fantastic in his own art. 

They both wandered around the exhibit in silent awe. Lost in their own thoughts. Every once in a while, Aziraphale would look up to see where Crowley had gotten to, and would find the man, standing, silently, his head tilted up to stare thoughtfully at one giant painting or another. Aziraphale would take a few moments to admire Crowley’s tall, lanky form, his copper hair, his canted hip. Then he’d wander to the next painting. 

Eventually, they ended up in front of the same painting. It depicted similar, lonely, barren fields as many other paintings, and in this one, a bright yellow train car floated above the ground. A small, ghostly white dog sat in the open portion of the car, and a mournful square of stormy evening sky could be seen through the open space in which he sat. 

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley and saw his face, calm and focused, staring up at the painting, his facial features aglow with silent pleasure, obvious to Aziraphale even though Crowley had his shades in place over his eyes. 

“What do you think?” he asked, almost making Aziraphale jump as his words broke the silence. 

“I think it’s beautiful” Aziraphale breathed. But he wasn’t looking at the painting when he said it. He was looking at Crowley’s upturned face. 

After the museum, they headed to the restaurant Aziraphale had selected. It was a lovely Italian place. Very small with a limited menu, and Aziraphale ordered for the both of them, a spicy shrimp dish, scallops, crab stuffed ravioli, eggplant fried with plum tomatoes and dusted paper thin shavings of a bitingly sharp cheese. Crowley dutifully took bites when Aziraphale offered them. They had apparently, swiftly fallen into a ritual, since the sushi restaurant, of Aziraphale feeding Crowley by holding forkfuls of each dish out for him to try. It was extremely intimate, doting in a way. Something Aziraphale would never dream of doing with anyone else he’d only known for a short few days and he marveled at how comfortable and natural it felt to hold small, carefully selected tidbits of food out for Crowley to remove from Aziraphale’s fork with gentle pulls of his teeth and lips. 

It was also stunningly erotic. Which did nothing to help Aziraphale’s growing feeling that this was not at all the type of evening that friends usually shared. The sexual tension, the plain and obvious want between them was so thick it was almost palpable. Every time Aziraphale offered up a morsel of food for Crowley to share, he could feel Crowley’s mouth, the pressure it made, the pull of his lips, radiating down the stem of the fork and into Aziraphale’s hand. It was easy to imagine Crowley’s lips elsewhere, touching Aziraphale’s skin.

The light inside the restaurant was dim and so Crowley had removed his shades, placing them on the table next to his wine glass, which was now full of ice water. He kept his light amber eyes trained on Aziraphale as they spoke, of the food, the art exhibit, about Newt and Anathema and their new baby. Crowley was interested in hearing about other parts of Aziraphale’s life. His hobbies and interests, and about the people he cared about. He laughed out loud when Aziraphale related the story of how Abigail had fallen asleep the moment she’d been put in Aziraphale’s arms, clearly charmed. 

As the meal wore on, Aziraphale started to run out of things to say. He had, up until this point, felt full of things to say to Crowley, about art, about his bookshop, about the history of Italian cooking and his experiences in seminary. But now, as the glass of wine he’d had and the delicious food worked their way through him, he felt loose, languid, probably the most contented and happy he’d been in weeks. They waited for coffees and a slice of tiramisu that Aziraphale had been eyeing in the small dessert case since they’d entered, and Aziraphale felt himself fall into a silence that Crowley didn’t seem anxious to break with speech of his own. 

They looked at one another in the dim candlelight, letting themselves be buffered about by the raucous laughter and happy conversations of those seated around them in the tiny restaurant. There were things written in Crowely’s pale, amber eyes that made Aziraphale’s pulse jump at his throat. He should have felt uncomfortable with the sustained eye contact. Should have felt nervous over what it meant, but he didn’t. He felt nothing but sexual adrenaline, sharp and pure, rushing through his veins. 

This want, pure and deep, pulled inside of him like an ocean tide as he looked at the beautiful, copper haired man across the table. He realized with a start that he’d never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to kiss Crowley. To lose himself in kissing those soft, expressive lips. To gently remove his clothing and kiss every inch of unexplored skin that lay beneath. 

The waitress returned with the coffees and the tiramisu, knocking them both out of the moment, and Aziraphale was just a little bit grateful for the distraction. How could he trust himself to protect his heart when he wanted so badly to fling it at Crowley’s feet? He was in over his head. 

He offered Crowley a small bite of the coffee and cocoa flavored dessert, which Crowley accepted gladly, this time, enveloping the piece of cake with sensuous lips and pulling the food off the fork with a slowness that bordered on pornographic, all while keeping his eyes locked with Aziraphale’s. The message was clear.  _ I will take anything you give me. I’ll take anything and cherish it and consume it. _ Aziraphale’s breath caught in his throat and it took him a minute to redirect his attention to the dessert in front of him.

Soon Aziraphale had asked for the check, pleased when Crowley didn’t fight him for it, and they’d walked back out onto the street to head to where Crowley’s car was parked, a ten minute walk away. The streets were almost empty as it was close to eleven on a Tuesday night. They chatted amiably as they walked, Aziraphale aching to take Crowley’s hand, but abstaining. What good was a pact to stay platonic friends if he grabbed the man’s hand and intertwined their fingers at the first opportunity? But their walk was slow and meandering. The conversation simple and easy. Crowley didn’t try to touch Aziraphale or get closer physically. Aziraphale was extremely disappointed. 

Eventually they got to the car and Crowley drove them back to Aziraphale’s shop. The ride was spent in relative silence. Aziraphale keeping his eyes trained out the front and side windows of the car so as not to stare at Crowley like a besotted fool.

When they pulled up in front of the shop, Aziraphale took a deep breath and asked what he’d been wanting to ask for a long time. “Crowley..” he began hesitantly, steeling himself for rejection or evasion “Will you tell me.. About your life.. before”

“What do you want to know?” Crowley sat patiently next to him, head turned to look at him with eyes that were now a touch guarded, and Aziraphale instantly regretted asking. But still.. He had to push forward, had to pry gently at the secret life Crowley had lived.

“What happened to you? How much of what... Hastur said was true? And if you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. I just thought it would be better to do so here, somewhere private and safe.”

He’d purposefully waited until their evening was almost over so that if Crowley wanted him to leave, he could with ease. He hadn’t wanted to invite Crowley into the shop, for if he did, he was certain all attempts to hear about Crowley’s prior life would be forgotten, and that he wouldn’t make it more than a few paces from the front door without kissing him. And though he wanted so desperately to kiss Crowley, what he wanted more was to know him. To know what he’d experienced, what he’d done. What he’d been so afraid to mention before now.

“There isn’t much to tell really” Crowley sighed as he put the car in park and turned off the engine, turning slightly in his seat to face Aziraphale, who did the same. They both removed their seatbelts to get more comfortable. “I fell in love with a very bad person when I was very young and I made a lot of bad decisions.”

Aziraphale could have prompted him, but chose to stay silent and wait. 

“My ex, his name was ...Lucien. You know, I haven’t spoken his name in a long time. I used to call him ‘Lucifer’ to the boys, my friends, as a joke. A way to lighten up about the whole thing.” He was silent for a second, thinking. “He was an older bloke, 30 to my 22. He told me a lot of pretty lies and introduced me to the joys of heroin addiction. And then, he, well, when he ran out of money, he sort of  _ encouraged me _ to.. to sleep with his friends in order to help pay the rent and keep us in drugs.” He stopped then, looking down at his hands. 

“Encouraged you?” Aziraphale kept his voice as soft and gentle as he could.

“Well, perhaps ‘encouraged’ is a mild word” Crowley continued, keeping his eyes downcast. “He threatened me with violence whenever I tried to refuse.. Which was only a couple of times, because I learned my lesson quite quickly and I really wanted the drugs he was giving me.”

“Did he ever physically harm you?” 

“Yeah. A few times. Hit me across the mouth once. Once he tried to choke me. But just enough to reassert his dominance. He never… beat me up per say.” Looking up, he must have seen the look of sadness on Aziraphale’s face, for he continued, making his voice gruff and studiously casual. “Look angel, don’t be too sympathetic. I went along with it. I did it didn’t I? There wasn’t a gun to my head. He must have known I was the type of boy to give it up easily. I could have fought him, or walked out, or said no, but the drugs were more important than my pride or my dignity, so I can’t blame him for all of it”

“Oh Crowley. Oh  _ yes, _ you  _ can _ blame him. Yes you can” Aziraphale placed a reassuring hand on Crowley’s elbow on the armrest between them. “You were very young, and he threatened you. This wasn’t your fault”

“I did it though. I did it all on my own” Crowley’s voice had gone up an octave, he sounded younger, less self assured and very vulnerable. Aziraphale ached to gather him up in his arms and hold him, to stroke his hair, and kiss his brow. To shelter him and protect him. But he’d purposefully kept this conversation to the car so that he could have physical distance from Crowley. He didn’t want his urges to be close to Crowley to leak into his ability to listen. He needed the console of the car between them to keep him from doing something he couldn’t pull back from.

Instead, he squeezed Crowley’s arm more firmly “Listen to me darling. Listen.” it was vital that he express to Crowley how sincere his words were. “Look at me”

Crowley looked up at him with amber eyes, eyes gone distant and stiff with emotional discomfort. 

“You were not to blame for what happened to you Crowley. You were a victim of a very unstable, very cruel, very…” He hesitated for a beat, uncertain of whether to bring religious terminology into his speech, but it fit “evil person. He hit you, he threatened you. He used you. You didn’t ask for any of it. You just didn’t know how to leave. And that’s ok. This wasn’t your fault.” Upon hearing these words, Crowley’s face grew even more anguished, as if Aziraphale had said something negative or painful. 

“You don’t understand” He said, looking at his hands in his lap, his voice quiet. “I got used to it angel. I got used to it and I even.. liked it a little. Lucian made sure he was there most of the time. He said it was to ‘look after me’, to make sure I wasn’t hurt, and he made the men use protection when they..when they.. But I think it was because he liked to watch. He loved watching me be debased. It got him off. And I got so used to it. And it was the only pleasure I was allowed to have, outside of all the drugs and the booze. Sometimes, I even.. finished.” He squeezed his eyes shut and then turned his head away from Aziraphale, towards the driver’s side window.

“But dearest. Would you have done it if you’d had a choice? Would you have done it if he hadn’t told you he’d beat you if you didn’t? If he hadn’t been there watching to make sure it happened?”

Crowley shook his head. “No” he said in a strained voice. “No, absolutely not. But after a couple of years of living that way, it got hard to remember what was my idea and what wasn’t. What I wanted and what was simply being done to me.”

“Crowley” Aziraphale made sure his voice was as soft and as gentle as it could possibly be. “Crowley. It isn’t your fault. You have to believe me when I tell you that you did nothing to bring this on yourself. Nothing but trust someone you thought you could trust. Someone who used and betrayed you.”

He carefully, slowly picked up Crowley’s hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, he gently brought it to his lips and kissed Crowley’s knuckles, one by one. “You have nothing to be ashamed of” he said, holding Crowley’s hand to his cheek, his voice suffused with loving kindness, his heart utterly full of sympathy and affection for the man beside him, wishing he could heal the wounds inside Crowley with such a simple gesture. . 

Crowley’s head swiftly turned back to look at him with eyes full of fear and confusion. Aziraphale was taken aback. He immediately let go of Crowley’s hand “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean to..” Had he crossed a boundary he oughtn’t have? Had he let his feelings get the better of him? Perhaps Crowley didn’t want to be touched…

“It’s fine angel.” Crowley’s voice was rough, and he quickly slipped his shades back into place. “I.. I have to get home. I had a lovely time tonight. I’ll see you later ok?” The words were polite but perfunctory, empty of any emotion.

Aziraphale was confused by the sudden change in mood, but if Crowley wanted to leave, he wasn’t about to ask him to stay longer. “Alright Crowley. Whatever you wish. I had a lovely time too.” He exited the car awkwardly and took the few steps towards the door of his shop. He turned around to wave goodbye and saw Crowley already pulling back out into the street with a squeal of tires. 

Aziraphale let himself into his shop, feeling a cold emptiness curling behind his sternum. He had clearly upset Crowley, and he didn’t know how or why. By showing him affection? By telling him the abuse and assault he’d experienced were not his fault? It seemed contradictory that Crowley would pull away from such a message. Would pull away from Aziraphale’s gentle kisses to his hand. Aziraphale didn’t know what he’d done wrong, but it must have been quite bad. Being a novice in the game of love, perhaps he’d misstepped in some unknown way?

If Crowley reacted so adversely to his affections, then what was Aziraphale to do? Feeling lost and confused and more than a little sad, he made himself a cup of herbal tea, grabbed a first edition copy of John Le Carre’s The Spy Who Came In From The Cold in an attempt to distract himself with the classic mystery and settled into his armchair, hoping that books, his old standby, his true sanctuary from the stresses of the outside world would soothe him. The book did nothing to help. He found himself unable to focus on the words on the page, and after rereading the same two sentences, five times over, he decided it was time for bed. He snapped off the lamp, put his teacup in the sink and slowly climbed the stairs to his lonely bedroom. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	14. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just popping in to add a short chapter before I start the next one, which will be quite long. 
> 
> I wanted to specify, if its not clear by now, that unlike seekwill's fic that involves a complex and well wrought plot, my fics are pretty light on plot. Angel meets demon. They fall in love. Pining ensues. They get together. I'm a simple woman with simple needs. I leave the research and the twists and turns to more advanced or more dedicated writers. I am here for the fluff and the smut. 
> 
> I'm so thrilled with all the wonderful comments. I've seriously developed a Pavlovian response to seeing the gmail notifications come up on my phone. Thank you!

Aziraphale was woken up the next morning by his phone ringing. He was groggy, surprised when he saw that it was past nine in the morning, that he’d let himself fall asleep for so many consecutive hours, which was unusual for him. He was so groggy that he didn’t get to answering his phone in time. When he finally did sit up in bed and rub the sleep from his eyes and grab his phone, he could see a missed call from Deirdre. 

He gave himself another few minutes to reorient himself to consciousness before calling her back.

“Hello darling! Good morning!” Her officious, friendly voice piped through the earpiece, waking him up even further. “I hear you’ve got a new man in your life and I rather think it’s a good idea to invite him over to dinner with all of us don’t you?”

Aziraphale, mildly taken aback, took a moment to respond. “Oh… erm.. Yes. I.. well, I sort of do have someone special in my life, but things are...complicated and. Well..” He trailed off, still apparently groggy. Deirdre was known for being very direct. He supposed her being in her early forties with a rambunctious preteen child and a grumpy (but well meaning) husband made forwardness a necessity. 

“Well, complicated or not, I think we’d all like to meet the young man who’s captured our Azirapahle’s fancy. Suss him out a bit as it were. Does This coming Sunday work for you?”

Aziraphale realized he wasn’t in control of this conversation, neither the direction, nor the outcome of it. “Alright. That would be lovely. I’ll ask him and let you know”

“Wonderful!” Deirdre sounded as if it was already a foregone conclusion. “You’ll have to come over early and help me with dessert. There’s a new recipe I’d like to try. Say at three? Your gentleman can come at six.”

“Alright Deirdre. Thank you. That sounds very nice.” Aziraphale couldn’t help a slow smile blooming on his face at Deirdre’s affectionate, no nonsense attitude. Even despite the fact that his “young man” had driven off in a strange mood last night and that he felt insecure and confused about that. Deirdre’s sensible motherliness cut through all that for a minute. “Shall I bring wine as well.”

“Of course! Please! A couple of bottles that you think will go well with chicken. I’ll see you Sunday! Adam! No! Put that down.. You can’t just..” and then the line went dead. Aziraphale sighed and put the phone down to go make himself his morning cup of tea and take a shower. He’d reach out to Crowley later. Maybe call him instead of simply texting. Yes. That would be a good idea. Make a real connection. He tottered off towards the kitchen, his mind already worrying over what an evening with Crowley and his suburban friends would be like.

__________________________________________________

Crowley woke around noon. He had a habit of sleeping in most mornings, finding sleep the only remaining coping mechanism that worked now that alcohol and drugs were out of the picture. He’d never been a gambler, hated to give up money unless there was a guarantee he’d get a product of equal or greater value back immediately. And he’d never smoked cigarettes. But sleep? Sleep with it’s soft, gentle blanket of forgetfulness, or sometimes strange and interesting dreams. Sleep was an acceptable way to shut out the world. 

He sat up in bed and ran a hand through his wild, sleep mussed hair. Last night.. Last night he’d told Aziraphale about his past. An image of Aziraphale’s face came to him, soft and concerned in the dim light that had filtered in from the street lamps inside his car. Aziraphale, who had patiently listened and assured him that it wasn’t his fault. Aziraphale, who instead of getting stiff and uncomfortable, had kissed Crowley’s hand and held it to his cheek. Crowley’s mind had rejected the action, as pity. As false. As anything other than what he hoped it would be. Signs of true affection and acceptance. 

He didn’t quite know why the tenderness in Aziraphale’s actions, the feel of his soft lips against Crowley’s knuckles had scared him so badly. Perhaps because it was exactly what he’d wanted and he didn’t know what to do about that. If Aziraphale forgave him for what he’d done. More than forgave him, insisted that there was nothing to forgive. If Aziraphale wasn’t repulsed by him, ashamed of him, wasn’t about to push him away, then that meant… That meant that Aziraphale might get even closer. Might curl his way deeper into Crowley’s heart. And that was simply terrifying for Crowley. In that moment of loving acceptance and physical closeness, Crowley realized how deeply in love with Aziraphale he’d become. That there was no stopping it now. And love made him helpless and achingly vulnerable. 

Aziraphale could ruin him now. If he left. If he dug deeper into Crowley’s past and drew back in horror at what he found when more details came to light. If he decided Crowley was all flash and sex appeal and no real substance. If he left, Crowley would be finished. And that was truly terrifying. Not knowing how to cope with this sudden realization, he’d run away. He hated leaving Aziraphale on the street outside his shop with nary a backwards glance, but his fight or flight fear response had kicked in and flight had won out instantly. 

When the phone rang an hour or so later and he saw Aziraphale’s name come up on the caller id, he almost didn’t answer, watching the letters of the other man’s strange and beautiful name pulse across the screen for an extended time. But at the last minute, just as he was sure the voicemail would engage, he picked up the phone and swiped up to answer. 

“Hello” he said, voice rough with recent sleep and mild apprehension, wondering if the other man was angry for how he’d run off last night. The minute he heard Aziraphale’s sweet, cheerful voice respond though, he felt relief rush though him. 

“Hello Crowley! Good… afternoon. I hope you slept well. I certainly did. Which is strange for me.” Not pausing to hear Crowley respond, Aziraphale continued, apparently feeling a bit effusive today “I was wondering if you’re free on Sunday. My friends are having a dinner party and they’d...well they’d like to meet you.”

Crowley couldn’t have been more surprised if Aziraphale had told him he’d grown wings and was flying about over central London. “They… what? I’m sorry. A dinner party?” He felt slow witted and confused. 

“Yes. Nothing formal. Just my friends the Pulsifers and the Youngs and myself. They.. they want to meet you and.. Say hello. They’re very sweet people really, I think you’d like them a lot”

  
“Oh”, Crowley remained nonplussed. “Um. Where do they live? What time on Sunday?

“Does that mean you’re free?” the hope in Aziraphale’s voice was thrilling and terrifying. 

“Erm.. yes. Sure. I can move a couple of things around. Shall I bring anything?”

“Just yourself dear.” Aziraphale waited patiently for Crowley to hunt down a paper and pen and gave him the Young’s address, which was far more spacious a house than the Pulsifers. The two families lived next door to one another in a nice suburb of London. “Come at six”.

“Shall I pick you up?” he asked, but Aziraphale responded that he’d be going over early to help with the food. 

“Oh I’m so glad you can come!” Crowley heard happiness plain in Aziraphale’s voice and it caused twin blooms of joy and fear to well up inside his stomach. “After last night.. I … wasn’t sure if I’d upset you.. If perhaps.. I’d done the wrong thing?” Crowley winced. 

“No. No. You did nothing wrong angel. Nothing at all. I’m the one who did something wrong. I, just. Well. I won’t get into it now, suffice to say, you were fine.” he finished lamely, unsure of what else to say that wasn’t a declaration of anguished love or the beginning of a lengthy discussion about his psychological fears surrounding rejection. This wasn’t the time.

“Well, if you insist. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you Sunday then.”   
  


“Same angel. I’ll see you and your friends at six.” 

After they rang off, Crowley showered and dressed and decided to spend the first part of the afternoon working on his new mural. It was halfway done, being that he’d made rough sketches of almost all the figures and shapes and had started filling in the details. Sketching, pulling objects out of a blank canvas with a pencil had always been extremely calming and focusing to Crowley. It was his therapy. He often lost himself for hours, shading in the delicate curl of a woman’s hair or the dappled light beneath a tree or the creases and wrinkles in a man’s face. He found early on that he had to set an alarm on his phone in order to pull himself out of the trance he’d invariably put himself in when he worked, or else he’d stop when his hand started to cramp painfully and realize that it was four O'clock in the morning. 

The mural was shaping up to be a good one. Something he could be proud of. He’d continued with the theme of the Garden of Eden, drawing a large snake coiled in the left hand foreground, it’s dark, shining scales mirroring those on his tattoo. In the middle of the canvas stood Adam and Eve. He, looking off into the distance somewhere, she, reaching up with a delicate hand to pluck an apple from the large apple tree that filled out the rest of the central panel. The panel to the right stood blank still, but Crowley now knew what would occupy it. A beautiful angel, with large, white wings spread wide. A flaming sword in his hand. 

  
  
  



	15. Cake and Company

Sunday came not quickly enough, and Aziraphale, dressed in his most formal Sunday attire, (bow tie included) caught the bus out to the Young’s, a paper bag with two bottles of wine in his grasp. As an afterthought, he’d brought a nice sparkling water with a hint of raspberry so that Crowley could also have something special to drink. 

He was extremely nervous about the upcoming dinner party. He had no idea how a person like Crowley, all posh clothes and sharp angles and sexy swagger would get along with his sweet, simple suburban, domesticated friends. He’d never seen Crowley around anyone, other than that brief time with his brash, drunken friends in the hospital waiting room. And well, that wasn’t a promising crowd. He knew his friends were warm, welcoming people. And that Crowley was polite and well mannered. But he still worried about friction. Misunderstandings. What if they found him unsettling? What if he found them dull? 

He arrived at the Young’s and was immediately ushered into the kitchen after exchanging a brief but friendly nod with Arthur and pausing to ruffle Adams hair and ask how he was doing. Deirdre closed the swinging door that separated the kitchen from the rest of the house and immediately started in with the questions. 

“What’s his name?”

“What is he like?”

“Do you like him very much?”

“What does he do for a living?”

Aziraphale’s face grew hot and he let her take the wine from him and tried to answer her questions as directly as possible. It was strange to discuss Crowley with Deirdre, after thinking of the man as almost his own personal fantasy for the past couple of weeks. It brought Crowley into focus in a way that was both thrilling and unsettling. As if Crowley were actually some sort of dark wood nymph Aziraphale had discovered out in the forest somewhere, seen only by Aziraphale when the moon was full. 

But he loved Deirdre, and having someone to chat with about the exciting, confusing new man in his life was reassuring and enjoyable. Her eyes lit up at his description of Crowley’s art and his sly sense of humor and his beautiful eyes. She listened with glee, clearly getting a vicarious kick out of Aziraphale’s massive crush on the mysterious red haired man. 

She’d decided to make a lemon cake with lemon custard filling, drizzled with a fine, sugar icing and Aziraphale heartily agreed that this would be a nice dessert to pair with the simple roast chicken and vegetables she’d decided to make for dinner. Eventually, the conversation strayed from Crowley to baking. The two of them were soon bent over cookbook, heads together, debating the use of lemon zest and the merits of granular sugar compared to powdered. Aziraphale offered up a small prayer of thanks for good friends and their soothing supportive presence in his life. 

They soon had the cake batter mixed and poured into greased baking pans and in the oven. Deirdre said she’d wait until the cake was done before putting the chicken in the oven so as not to make what she called “cake a la chicken” and Aziraphale had agreed, chuckling at the horrific possibility. They poured themselves a glass of the white wine Aziraphale had brought and chatted amiably until Newt and Anathema had arrived around 5 O’Clock with Abigail in tow. 

Shortly after everyone said their hellows with warm hugs and kisses to the cheek, Aziraphale asked if he could hold the baby and was rewarded with an armful of soft, warm infant. Abigail looked up at him somberly, with eyes that looked large and luminous in her small, pink face. His heart swelled painfully at the sight of this tiny human, so trusting and so peaceful in his arms. She reached up a small hand, tiny, wrinkled fingers outstretched, and he supplied a finger for her to grip onto. She immediately pulled his finger down and shoved it into her wet, toothless mouth. Everyone moved to the living room and settled themselves with drinks while Deirdre bustled back and forth from the kitchen, refilling glasses and checking on the food. 

It was a few minutes to six when Aziraphale heard the crunch of gravel and the rumble of Crowley’s car engine outside. Feeling his heart start to race, he swiftly yet gently handed Abigail back to Anathema in preparation for Crowley’s arrival. “I think our guest is here” he said, unable to contain the nervous energy he heard in his voice. 

Everyone got up and went to the door, which in hindsight, might have been a bit intimidating, because when Crowley knocked and Arthur swung the door open to greet him, he looked a bit taken aback by the multitude of grinning faces he saw in the doorway waiting for him. 

“Hello” He said simply with a shy smile and held out a bouquet of orchids. 

“Hello!” Deirdre cooed. Thank you for the flowers. You must be Crowley. I’m Deirdre Young” 

Crowley smiled and sauntered his way into the foyer. Everyone made room for him and stood around expectantly, waiting to be introduced. Aziraphale couldn’t help but hold his breath while Crowley shook hands with Aruthur and Newt and Anathema and gave a small wave and a “hullo” to Abigail, where she sat, eyeing him from her perch on Anathema’s hip. 

“Please come in! Can I offer you a drink? Some wine perhaps? Deirdre had shifted into full on hostess mode. 

“Some water will be fine, thank you Deirdre” Crowley said, hanging his black jacket up on a proffered hook in the hallway. He was wearing a deep blue button down shirt and his usual tight black jeans, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck. He looked astoundingly attractive as usual, and Aziraphale grew suddenly shy and quiet. Hanging back behind his friends until Crowley sought him out and gave him a swift but warm hug “hello there angel.” he said, scrubbing his hand over the back of his neck nervously, while giving Aziraphale a shy glance that melted Aziraphale’s insides into a glowing puddle of warmth. 

He’d alerted the Youngs to Crowley’s sensitivity to light and so they, being the considerate hosts they were, had lit a few candles and turned the lamps down low. It being mid October at this point, the daylight was fading more quickly, and the dim glow that illuminated the inside of the house lent a cosy, intimate feeling to the gathering. Crowley took off his shades and folded them into the front pocket of his jacket so that his lovely eyes were on display. 

“Aziraphale dearest?” Deirdre was poking her head around the kitchen door, calling for him. “And Anathema! If you can give your adorable little girl to her father for a minute. I need your advice as well on what to do about dessert”.

Aziraphale and Anathema dutifully joined her in the kitchen, where both women rounded on him instantly, clearly not wanting to talk about cake at all. 

“Holy shit Aziraphale!” Anathema hissed in a low whisper, her eyes going round as she gripped him by the arm. “You didn’t tell me he was  _ so hot _ !” she started fanning herself and her face had gone pink. 

Deirdre nodded in agreement, bouncing lightly on the balls of her feet and grasping his other arm. “He’s something else Aziraphale. Oh my. You neglected to mention that you’d started seeing a rock star.” Both women were grinning ear to ear and blushing. Aziraphale wasn’t sure how to respond, so he simply smiled back.

“Yes. He is rather beautiful isn’t he?” 

“Well, that’s one way to put it” Deirdre replied, her smile growing wicked as she waggled her eyebrows at him. 

Aziraphale gave them a broad grin before asking “Was there anything you wanted to know about the cake Deirdre?”

All three of them laughed at Deidre’s obvious ruse to gush about Crowley’s looks in private. “No.. no. You go on back and spend some time with sexy pants out there. I can handle the rest of the food.”

“If you’re sure. I’d be happy to help”

“Don’t you dare. You get back to the living room and keep that slinky, gorgeous creature company or I’ll toss you out of this kitchen by bodily force” Aziraphale smiled and complied, turning to follow Anathema out.

Aziraphale and Anathema returned to the living room to find the men and Abigail (though Abigail was a silent participant) involved in an animated conversation about cars. Crowley was discussing the merits of his car (something called a “jaguar” apparently) over other types of cars with similarly mysterious names. Aziraphale had spent zero time in his life paying attention to automobiles, other than to make sure not to be hit by one when crossing the street. Arthur and Newt however seemed keenly interested in hearing Crowley’s opinions on the subject. They were inputting their own opinions on things like “horsepower” and “fuel injectors” and “power steering”. 

Aziraphale wandered over to the couch where Crowley was holding court and sat near him, but not too close. Far enough so that he could turn in his seat to watch Crowley speak, watch his fine boned, long fingered hands sway through the air while his face lit up at opportunity to talk about one of his favorite things. Eventually though, he started casting small glances in Aziraphale’s direction as he spoke, and, maybe noticing that Aziraphale looked utterly lost, his car talk tapered off and he asked how dinner was coming along. 

“Oh I think you’re in for a treat tonight.” Aziraphale replied. “Deirdre’s a fantastic cook.”

The conversation turned eventually to food, then to art, then to how things were going at the Pulsifers now that little Abigail had sort of taken over Newt and Anathema’s life. 

“She is our demanding goddess and we are just her grateful servants” Newt intoned sarcastically. Anathema grinned. Both of them looked exhausted but happy.

“If only her uncle Aziraphale would move in as a live in au pair.” Anathema said wistfully, turning her smile on Aziraphale. “She’s utterly in love with him”.

“As anyone would be who’d spent five minutes with him” added Crowley, then realizing how much he’d said, blushing furiously behind his shades when four pairs of eyes turned in his direction, (it would have been five pairs, but Abigail was completely absorbed in tugging at a string on her mother’s lacy blouse and wasn’t looking at him at all). 

“Well!” Newt piped up. “We do hope we can coax him into some extensive babysitting when Abigail’s old enough to be bottle fed.”

“Speaking of which” Anathema rose with Abigail in her arms. “Arthur, may I avail myself of the privacy of your guest room so that I can feed this little munchkin?” With Arthur’s swift, slightly awkward nod, she went off to breastfeed Abigail. 

“The feedings are endless.” Newt supplied “I’m ever so glad not to have been born with breasts”

Crowley’s bark of loud laughter made Newt grin. Aziraphale began to relax. The men seemed to have accepted Crowley easily and Crowley seemed relaxed as well, daring to lean back on the sofa and adopt his usual languid, boneless pose, with arms and legs splayed out, taking up as much room as possible. He brought up the topic of football, and Arthur lit up at the prospect of discussing his favorite teams. Newt joined in, able to hold his own but clearly not thrilled with the topic. One of Crowley’s arms was flung across the back of the sofa to rest just behind Aziraphale’s head, and it’s proximity was making his face flush. 

He inched closer to Crowley under the guise of reaching for his drink on the coffee table in front of them, and subtly leaned against the back of the sofa. He could feel Crowley’s arm behind the back of his neck, as if it vibrated with it’s own, subsonic frequency. Just a subtle adjustment and Crowley’s arm would rest across his shoulders. Aziraphale struggled to pay attention to the rather dull conversation about football teams and players and who was likely to annihilate whom in this match or that. He was impressed at Crowley’s ability to tailor the way he spoke based on who he spoke to. He could barely recognize the gruff, casual tone he used to commiserate with Arthur over the sorry state of this or that team. He was gentler and even a bit flirty with Newt, who was admittedly softer and more approachable than Arthur. 

Eventually, Deirdre poked her head in from the dining room to tell them that dinner was ready. The table was set with two large roasted chickens, along with parsnips, rutabagas, carrots and potatoes, a large green salad and some of Newt’s homemade bread. They settled around the table and there was much passing of plates and clinking of silverware before everyone had their food and was able to begin eating. Adam was at an overnight play date with his friend Wenslydale, so that he wouldn’t die of boredom, or drive the adults mental with constant questions. 

Aziraphale tucked in to his plate of food, marveling at the crisp skin and tender meat of chicken and the garlic and wine gravy that Deirdre had simmered in a pan to go on top of meat and vegetables. He saw that Crowley even helped himself to a small plate and picked at it, seeming to enjoy what he was eating. Aziraphale resolutely ignored the urge to feed the other man. Now was not the time or the place, but the wanting to do it made him smile into his piece of bread and butter. 

There was a moment of relative silence, punctuated only by happy chewing and murmured compliments to Deirdre and the faint music of fork against plate. Aziraphale took a moment to look around the table while he ate, seeing his closest, dearest friends around him, all happy, all enjoying one another’s company and enjoying the fantastic food Deirdre had prepared. 

Crowley sat next to him, chewing slowly, also looking around at the Pulsifers and the Youngs, his face calm, a small smile on his lips. He seemed at ease, and that is all that Aziraphale wanted for him. To be calm, to feel safe. He wanted to reach inside Crowley, to the core of fear and shame he carried around inside him and smooth it away somehow. To have Crowley here, among his chosen family, to watch them accept and enjoy him caused a swell of love to bloom inside Aziraphale’s chest. It was reminiscent of what he’d once thought of as God’s love. He knew God was not gone from him. He still had his faith, fractured and changed though it was. He simply no longer wanted to go to a church to express it. God was here, in this room with them. He was there in Abigail’s small form where she slept against her mother’s shoulder while Anathema ate, one handed, leaning against Newt. God was here in the way Deirdre caught his eye and scrunched her nose at him, or how Arthur tipped his glass toward Crowley with a respectful nod. In that moment, Aziraphale realized that he may have left the church, with it’s stiff, barely veiled sermons about the sin of homosexuality and it’s anger at the new and it’s fear at the wild and the strange.. But he hadn’t left God. 

Once the plates had been cleared away and coffees and tea were brought out, everyone digested and chatted for a while, whilst Deirdre requested that Aziraphale join her in the kitchen to put the finishing touches on dessert. He looked at Crowley briefly to ascertain if he were comfortable being left alone, but the red haired man was already deep in a conversation with Arthur, this time about Arthur’s antique chess set he’d spied in the living room, and so Aziraphale followed Deirdre into the kitchen. 

To her credit, she did make sure to ask Aziraphale whether he thought lemon zest should be added to the icing, or just sprinkled on top as a garnish before she abandoned all pretense and gushed about Crowley. 

“He’s fantastic!” she whispered, so as not to be heard from the dining room. “Tell me you’re madly in love with him. You must be”

Aziraphale was struck at the simplicity and ease with which she broached a subject that he’d been agonizing over for the past almost two weeks. How simple everything was with Deirdre. He suddenly remembered a story Arthur told him about how on the way to the hospital, she’d alternated between groaning in pain from heavy contractions and in twisting in her seat to see if they had any more egg and cress sandwiches in the back seat. She was always so plain about her feelings and her needs, and her expectation that Aziraphale do the same was a soothing balm when it should have felt invasive. It took the work off of Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“Yes.” he replied “Yes. Most definitely. I can barely think from loving him”, he felt his face flush and a lump rise in his throat at saying it out loud for the first time. His words caused Deirdre’s face to break into the most beautiful smile, her eyes misting as she grasped him by the arms

“Well dear, have you told him this?”

“No.. no. I haven’t found the courage. He’s, he’s sort of conflicted, and hard to read. And what if he doesn’t return my feelings?”

“Oh Aziraphale” Deirdre grew serious for a moment “Of course he does! Have you no idea how he looks at you? He’s clearly head over heels.”

Aziraphale loved her for saying so, but he still had his doubts. “Things are…” he replied, searching for the words “delicate at the moment. Complicated. I’m afraid I’ll scare him off if I tell him how I feel, and we’re keeping things platonic for now”

“Psssh!  _ Platonic _ ” Deirdre rolled her eyes dramatically. “Have you  _ seen  _ him? Good luck with that dear.” She patted him on the shoulder affectionately. “Now lets get this cake ready before they start to suspect that we’re in here, squealing like school girls over your date”. 

Aziraphale shaved some lemon zest evenly over the top of the three layer cake and Deirdre carefully shaved some paper thin slices of lemon to lay over top in a simple design and then Aziraphale carried the cake back out to the living room. 

Everyone except Crowley (and Anathema, who had a sleeping Abigail against her shoulder) burst into applause the minute they saw Aziraphale and Deirdre return with the cake in tow. It had become a ritual to applaud each new dessert the pair concocted together at dinners such as these, to sort of go over the top with it. Crowley looked confused for a quick moment but then, catching on, he joined in, adding a sharp whistle into the fray. Abigail squirmed, shifted position and fell back asleep, much to the relief of her parents, as Aziraphale slowly lowered the cake into its rightful place at the center of the table. 

“If it pleases your lord and ladyships,” Deirdre announced in the put on voice of a court announcer (another part of the silly ritual they’d fallen into) “Lady Deirdre and Sir Aziraphale of the table round would like to present lemon cake with lemon custard filling and sugar icing to your lords and ladyships”

Everyone applauded again, this time much more quietly, having realized that Abigail could wake up and not be particularly happy about it if they were more boisterous. Aziraphale set about cutting pieces and handing them out. The cake had come out beautifully, moist yet firm, the custard had congealed between the layers and the icing flaked temptingly under his knife. Everyone took a moment to start eating, and moans of appreciation soon followed. 

After dessert, they ended up back in the living room for drinks. Aziraphale got himself a white wine and poured a sparkling water for Crowley. He seated himself much closer to Crowley on the couch this time, so that their legs were mere centimeters apart. The conversation rambled through several topics, settling on Crowley’s artwork. He was obviously pleased to be speaking of the thing he loved the most and happily answered everyone’s questions. What type of art did he create? Where was his gallery again? What types of new artists did he typically look for. 

Eventually, people broke up into smaller conversations, Newt and Anathema discussing whether or not it was time to change Abigail, Arthur and Deirdre wandered off to start gathering dishes from the dining room table. 

Crowley had moved a bit, had sat forward on the sofa when he spoke of his art, and so he relaxed again into his seat, much closer to Aziraphale, pressing their legs and sides together, causing Aziraphale’s tingle in all the parts of his body that touched Crowley’s. Aziraphale’s hand rested on top of his leg and Crowley reached over and intertwined their fingers, giving Aziraphale’s hand a gentle squeeze. Aziraphale turned his head to find Crowley looking back, and suddenly the rest of the world ceased to exist. The noise of their friend’s talking nearby, the soft music Deirdre had put on in the background, all of it disappeared as Crowley’s pale golden eyes gazed into his own. 

Crowley’s eyes gleamed as he looked into Aziraphale’s, asking an unspoken question, and Aziraphale’s eyes responded, wordlessly. The question,  _ will you? _ The response, a resounding  _ yes.  _

Crowley cleared his throat and spoke to the room “Well, it’s been lovely, but I have an early day tomorrow. I think I’d best be going”, before anyone could react to the news of his departure, he turned to Aziraphale. “D’you need a ride?” he asked, voice casual and light, as if they hadn’t both just tacitly agreed to go home together moments before. 

“Oh, why yes. Yes, thank you Crowley. I’d appreciate that”. Arthur and Newt looked up pleasantly to shake hands with Crowley and hug Aziraphale goodbye, while he got very sly, very knowing glances from the women. Abigail reached out with a plump hand and grabbed Aziraphale’s nose, which was as good of a farewell as he should have expected from a two week old. She gave Crowley a very grave look indeed, then grimaced. 

“Don’t take it personally” Newt said upon seeing Crowley frown. She’ll warm up to you once she gets to know you.”

They were shown to the door with tupperware containers full of cake and chicken and vegetables, which Aziraphale gladly accepted, and then they were outside alone, the gentle darkness of a suburban evening enveloping them. Crowley offered to carry the bag of food and Aziraphale let him. They walked down the darkened front path that flanked the Young’s drive, a silence full of things neither felt ready or comfortable enough yet to say stretching between them. When they got to the car, Crowley opened the door and put the bag of food in the back seat, then stepped back so that Aziraphale could enter. He then walked around to the driver’s side and got settled and they took off for home. The ride was a silent one, but after they’d been driving for a few minutes, once they were out onto the open motorway, Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand again and held it. He felt the warmth of Crowley’s slender fingers, twined with his own as the car hurtled towards the city and towards his shop. 

  
  
  
  



	16. The End Of The World

They pulled up in front of the shop and Crowley turned off the engine, both sitting for a moment in the darkness of the parked car. Aziraphale turned his face to Crowley and asked if he’d like to come in, his pulse a swift, staccato beat in his throat. 

Crowley smiled a small smile and nodded and the two exited the car. Aziraphale grabbed the bag of food and Crowley followed him to the shop door, weaving between the Sunday evening foot traffic as they went. Upon entering, Aziraphale made sure to lock the door and turn on a dim lamp on a nearby table to give them enough illumination to make their way to the kitchenette at the back of the shop. 

“I’ll just put this in the ice box” Aziraphale said over his shoulder as he walked in front of Crowley to the small refrigerator he kept next to the sink and tiny stove that took up the space. Once he’d shut the refrigerator door and turned around, he was surprised to see that Crowley was quite close behind him. He gave a little gasp, a small intake of air at the sight of the other man, this close, standing probably a foot away, his shape just a dim outline in the light coming from the lamp over by the door. “Oh.. hello” he said, unsure of what else to say over the rushing blood in his ears.

“Angel..” Crowley’s voice was soft and serious “Can I kiss you?”

Aziraphale was overcome with the strength of his desire for Crowley to do just that and barely choked out a strained “of course” before Crowley’s arms were around his shoulders and Crowley’s soft lips were pressed against his own. The kiss deepened immediately into a hungry thing, their mouths open and wet and tongues exploring each other as Crowely backed Aziraphale against the edge of the sink and Aziraphale’s arms came around Crowley’s waist. 

Aziraphale’s nostrils were full of the smell of Crowley, of his cologne, his skin. His head spun with the feel of the tall, lanky man’s body pressed against him, his soft, wet lips mingling with Aziraphale’s. He tightened his arms around Crowley’s waist and felt Crowley give a slow, deliberate thrust of his hips against Aziraphale’s pelvis. They both groaned at the friction. Crowley broke the kiss momentarily to rest his forehead against Aziraphale’s and whisper to him “Dear god angel, I can’t stand how good you feel. I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you”

Aziraphale wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak. So instead, he grasped the belt loops on either side of Crowley’s pants and pulled their hips together, feeling Crowley’s want against him, against his own erect cock through their clothing. He let out a noise he didn’t recognize and lifted his lips capture Crowley’s again in a passionate kiss. 

Things grew desperate at that point. Crowley’s hands were everywhere, his mouth trailed down the side of Aziraphale’s jaw and planted burning kisses onto the few inches of skin visible above his shirt. Crowley stopped when his mouth encountered the bow tie, giving a frustrated growl deep in his throat and Aziraphale swiftly pulled the bow tie apart and unbuttoned several buttons on his shirt with trembling fingers. He was immediately rewarded with hot, open mouthed kisses against the sensitive skin of his neck. Moaning, he let his hands roam under Crowley’s jacket, over the taut skin and topography of the lean muscles of Crowley’s shoulders and back and waist he could feel through Crowley’s fancy shirt. 

Eventually, the edge of the small sink started to dig into Aziraphale’s low back in a way that not even Crowley’s worship of his neck and collarbone could make him ignore any longer. “Come upstairs” he gasped out and gently pushed Crowley away so that he could lead him to the stairs to his small bedroom above the shop. Crowley followed obediently, hand clasped in Aziraphale’s, and soon they were upstairs in Aziraphale’s small bedroom. Aziraphale took a quick moment to turn on another small, dim lamp by the side of the bed and then they were snogging again like teenagers.

Aziraphale’s mind was abuzz with chemicals that hadn’t been activated in far too long. His swift fumblings with anonymous strangers had been nothing compared with the sharp, tingling ache that twisted inside him at the feel of Crowley’s soft lips and greedy hands on his body. Crowley’s hands were now on Aziraphale’s hips, pulling them together insistently and Aziraphale was frankly surprised at the helpless keening noises he heard coming from his own mouth. Who was this sensual, lustful, desperate person he felt himself becoming? Where had he been hiding all these years? Crowley too was making lots of lovely noises, soft grunts and low moans with each move of Aziraphale’s hands on his body, each change of angle as their lips slid together. 

With what felt like a herculean level of will power, Aziraphale broke their kiss. “Clothes off” he said, breath coming fast, “please”. Crowley nodded, shrugged his coat off and threw it on a nearby chair and swiftly started to unbutton his shirt, While Aziraphale made quick work of his own. He had barely pulled his undershirt over his head before Crowley’s hands, hot and urgent were on the skin of his chest. He gasped at the sudden contact, and gasped again as he reached his hands out and ran them up the long, lean length of Crowley’s naked back. They fell to kissing again, forgetting momentarily that they both still had on pants and shoes. 

Eventually though, Aziraphale got a very compelling reminder that he was still half dressed as Crowley’s clever fingers began to tug insistently at the waistband of his trousers. He swiftly unbuttoned them before reaching across to work at the completely unnecessary and ornate metal buckle that fastened Crowley’s belt. Crowley leaned back to watch Aziraphale pull at the button and unzip the zipper of his pants, as if enjoying the sight of Aziraphale’s clumsy fingers at their work. He assisted Aziraphale by shoving his pants and underwear down around his ankles and stepping out of them before yanking Aziraphale’s pants down as well. They stepped together again and  _ oh my _ Aziraphale thought he might combust into literal flames at the feel of the full length of Crowley’s soft, smooth skin pressed up against him. The other man’s thick cock, hot and fully erect, pressed between them against Aziraphale’s stomach and his own stiff erection. He made a desperate, indecent noise in the back of his throat and fell with Crowley sideways onto the bed. 

Things became hazy for a moment as all he could feel was the silken slide of Crowley’s skin against his, Crowley’s lips open and wet against his own, Crowley’s hands curling tightly in his hair. It all mixed together into one, overriding sensation. One pulsing need that throbbed at the core of Aziraphale’s being. He wanted to be closer. Wanted to be inside Crowley, to surround him, to have the other man enter him. And not just in the sexual, anatomical sense (though he certainly wanted all of  _ that _ very badly as well). He wanted to crawl inside Crowley and feel every inch of his being mixed up with his own. His brain had ceased to think rational thoughts and had become a mass of exploding synapses as they explored each other with hands and mouths. 

He didn’t realize Crowley has spoken until the other man pulled away from his lips to lean back and repeat himself, his amber eyes, blown almost black with desire. “Please tell me you have some sort of lubrication in this bedroom” Crowley’s voice was thick and full of need. Aziraphale loved the sound of it. 

He nodded swiftly and twisted away from Crowley, to reach into a drawer by the side of the bed, returning with a small bottle. 

“Thank all that’s holy” Crowley pried open the bottle and squeezed a liberal amount of lubricant onto his palm, then reached down between them to grasp Aziraphale firmly with his hand. Aziraphale cried out at the sudden heat and slickness as Crowley gave him a few languorous strokes, then paused briefly to do the same to himself. “You’ll be sure to tell me if any of this is too much or not ok or something yes angel?” he stopped to look Aziraphale in the eyes, suddenly intent. 

Aziraphale struggled to bring himself back to the business of consenting to something he wanted so badly that his brain had ceased to function. “Oh.. yes. Yes yes. This. I want this” he babbled, too turned on to be embarrassed by his incoherent sentence fragments. He in fact was not sure what Crowley was up to, but was enlightened moments later when Crowley rolled on top of him and began thrusting against him with slow, steady rolls of his narrow hips. And then, oh  _ then _ Aziraphale’s mind well and truly flew away from him, replaced by explosions of pleasure as Crowley moved against him. The slickness of the lubricant, mixed with the heat of their bodies and the feel of Crowley’s stiff erection moving against his.. It was.. It was transcendent. 

“Oh Crowley. Oh god. Oh  _ fuck _ . You feel so good” he gasped into Crowley’s sweet smelling hair as the other man buried his face against Aziraphale’s collarbone, placing desperate kisses there while continuing his slow steady grinding against Aziraphale. 

Crowley levered himself up onto his elbows to look down into Aziraphale’s face, his eyes glazed, pupils blown wide, his mouth agape with pleasure. “Yes...yes.” his voice was little more than a strained gasp “yes angel. You.. you’re so beautiful. You’re so fucking beautiful. I won’t last long. I can’t  _ stand _ how good you feel” He bent his head to kiss Aziraphale and increased the speed of his thrusts, and they moaned in unison against each others lips. 

Aziraphale knew he could reach orgasm easily with Crowley grinding his cock against him like this. The friction was maddening, delicious, more than stimulating enough, but he much preferred to wait, to make this about watching Crowley come undone on top of him. He pushed Crowley away from their kiss to look up into his eyes. “I want to watch you come” he stated plainly and saw the effect his words had on Crowley as the other man’s eyes rolled back in his head slightly and he moaned low and deep in the back of his throat.

“Won’t be long now” Crowley hissed out through gritted teeth, his movements becoming erratic, his thrusts losing their rhythm. 

Aziraphale placed hot hands against Crowley’s hips and urged him onward “That’s it my darling. Please come for me.” he coaxed, breathless with anticipation, his eyes darting over Crowley’s face, trying to memorize him in this moment “let me see you lose control. You’re so beautiful. So beautiful... I love you so much”. He belatedly realized that his confession had spilled from him in the heat of the moment and didn’t care. His words seemed to push Crowley over the edge, because Azirapahle saw him clench his eyes shut and heard a noise between a groan and a sob as Crowley’s hips stuttered. He felt a hot wetness spill between them and watched with intent fascination as Crowley’s face became suffused with awe as his orgasm swept through him. Aziraphale knew he’d never seen anything so beautiful as Crowley, his red hair a wild mess about his lovely face, coming completely apart above him. 

Eventually, the open mouthed gasps Crowley made and the thrusts of Crowley’s pelvis slowed and stopped and he collapsed against Aziraphale, planting lazy kisses on Azirapahle’s neck, his breath coming fast, his heart pounding against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale wrapped him up in his arms and squeezed him tight, luxuriating in the feel of Crowley, loose and warm, and even enjoying the slick feel of the delicious mess he’d made between them. He had forgotten about his own orgasm for the time being, preferring to share in Crowley’s. 

Before long though, Crowley stirred against him and his lips sought out Aziraphale’s again. After a searing hot kiss, he pulled back and said “I want my mouth on you” in a rough voice. Aziraphale could only nod with enthusiasm. 

Crowley unceremoniously grabbed a fistful of Aziraphale’s bed sheets and cleaned up the evidence of his recent orgasm from both of their stomachs and chests, then slithered down the bed to lie between Aziraphale’s legs. He began placing soft, teasing kisses to the tender flesh of Aziraphale’s lower stomach and Aziraphale hoped he wouldn’t come before Crowley could well and truly get his mouth on him. It was a real concern at the moment as Crowley’s achingly soft, feather light kisses crept down to his hip and the top of his thigh, carefully skirting Aziraphale’s throbbing cock. Aziraphale wanted to tell Crowley that teasing Aziraphale with his mouth was a completely unnecessary step in this process, as he felt he was all too close to begin with, but couldn’t quite bring himself to say so. Instead, he gripped his hands in the sheets at his sides and moaned as Crowley’s kisses drove him slowly out of his mind. 

He gasped as Crowley suddenly gripped Aziraphale by the base, waiting for the feel of Crowley’s mouth, but it didn’t come yet. “You’re a bit too excited yes?” Crowley asked, voice gruff. Aziraphale gathered his elbows under him to look down at Crowley where the other man was looking up at him with those breathtaking amber eyes, a sly grin on his face. He nodded again.

“Yes.. yes. I’m very close.” he managed to choke out.

“That’s extremely exciting to hear angel, but I want this to last. Take a deep breath. Take several”

Aziraphale did as he was told, taking several slow, deep breaths as Crowley maintained a tight grip on the base of his cock. Soon he felt his body slow down and pull back from the brink. Felt the sharp twist of pleasure that preceded his approaching orgasm uncurl and loosen somewhat. Crowley, who could tell that Aziraphale’s release was no longer imminent gently let him go and returned to the business of planting soft, reverent kisses to Aziraphale’s inner thighs and hips and lower stomach. As he went, he spoke gentle words of affirmation, his hot breath breaking against Aziraphale’s tender skin.

“Angel, you’re so beautiful.” 

“You’re so lovely.”

“Being near you has been torture”

“I couldn’t think of anything but you”

“You’re so  _ fucking sexy _ .”

And then..”I’m going to put my mouth on you now. Tell me you want that”

Aziraphale nodded swiftly

“No angel. I need to hear you say it.”

“Yes. Yes Crowley. Please put your mouth on me”

The words were barely out of his mouth when Aziraphale felt Crowley’s hot wet mouth engulf him. He gasped, loud and desperate as Crowley sank his mouth down onto Aziraphale’s cock almost all the way to the base. He rested there for a minute without moving and Aziraphale knew he was making noises, knew he was saying something, but couldn’t focus on what exactly it was he was letting spill from his lips. Crowley’s mouth swiftly became the center of his universe. Crowley pulled back up to his tip and Aziraphale cried out at the intense pleasure of it. 

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Oh  _ fuck _ ” he heard himself say, reaching down to wrap his hands in Crowley’s hair. “I didn’t know it could feel like this. Oh Crowley, your mouth.. it..” His babbling was cut off sharply by Crowley plunging down on his cock again, then setting up a slow, torturous rhythm, up and down. 

“Oh Crowley. You f-feel so good. I’m going to come soon. I can’t hold it. I can’t.. I..” After a few more strokes of Crowley’s clever lips and hot tongue, Aziraphale felt himself clench and explode, arching his back and pressing himself up into the delirious heat of Crowley’s willing mouth. The waves of pleasure seemed to go on for longer than they reasonably should. His eyes rolled back in his head and he heard his voice, echoing against the walls of his small bedroom as he cried out Crowley’s name over and over. 

In the glowing aftermath, he was distantly aware of Crowley crawling back up to nestle warmly against his side, before he lost consciousness and slipped into a dreamless doze. 

He awoke an indeterminable time later to Crowley placing soft kisses against the side of his brow. “Wake up angel. It’s time for me to leave”

Azirpahale made an unhappy noise and turned to gather Crowley up in his arms. “Please stay” he sighed drunkenly against Crowley’s sweat damp neck. “Sleep here. We can make love again tomorrow morning”. He heard and felt Crowley chuckle against him.

“You have no idea how enticing that sounds, but it already  _ is _ tomorrow morning I have a meeting with a new client in a few hours. It won’t do to show up, smelling of sex, wearing yesterday’s clothes.”

“I beg to differ” Aziraphale joked, though he had to admit that Crowley was probably right and regretfully let him go. “I’ll walk you out” he said groggily and pulled himself from the bed, feeling clumsy and loose and extremely happy. 

They dressed in silence, stopping a few times to kiss languorously during the process, which slowed things down a bit. Eventually, they managed to get all of their clothes back on and stumble downstairs to the front door. Before they could step outside, Aziraphale took Crowley’s face gently in his hands and gazed up into his eyes. “Crowley.. I want you to know that I meant what I said tonight.. Earlier when.. When I said I loved you” He saw Crowley’s eyes grow soft yet wary in equal measure and continued quickly “you don’t have to say it back. It’s alright. Just please come back to me. Let me see you again soon”

Crowley looked conflicted for a moment, then responded “As soon as you like angel. I’m only leaving now because I stand to lose a promising new client if I don’t. Lunch later?”

Aziraphale smiled, telling himself it was fine that Crowley hadn’t returned his declaration. Happy simply to have more time with Crowley to look forward to in the near future. “That would be lovely dearest”.

He unlocked the door and stepped outside, pulling Crowley with him by the hand, and he instantly knew that something was wrong. A man was standing outside the shop, leaning up against Crowley’s car, hands shoved in the pockets of his dark jacket. Why was there a man here? It must have been four in the morning and the streets were deserted. 

The man pushed himself up from where he’d been leaning against the passenger side door of Crowley’s sleek, black car and took a few steps towards them. Aziraphale felt Crowley’s grip on his hand tighten painfully and felt him freeze beside him. He glanced swiftly to look at Crowley’s face and saw the other man’s features frozen in a pale mask behind his shades. He turned his attention back to the strange man in time to see him pull something from his pocket. Something small and black that glinted in the light from the streetlamp. 

A gun. The man had a gun.

“Hello Anthony” The man said, his voice a low rasp, and he raised the gun to point it squarely at Crowley’s chest from where he stood only a few feet away. “It’s been a long time”.

“Hello Lucien” Crowley’s voice was flat, completely empty of emotion, even fear. Aziraphale kept his attention, sharpened by hypervigilance, trained on the man in front of them, his eyes soaking up every minute detail of the man’s appearance. He was shorter than Crowley and Aziraphale, probably in his early 60s if memory served from Crowley’s descriptions, though he looked older than that, his face a mask of fine lines, his dark hair streaked heavily with silver. Aziraphale could tell that he had once been very handsome, with refined features, high cheekbones and light colored eyes, but that age and rough living had weathered him. The man had a cruel twist to his mouth and a cold glint to his eye. 

“A little bird told me where I could find you” Lucien continued speaking, though Aziraphale only half heard him above the pounding of his heart. His hand that still clutched Crowley’s was slick with sweat. “It’s been what.. Twenty years since you ran out on me with my money?”

“It wasn’t your money Lucien” Crowley sounded calm. How could he sound so calm? “I earned it. You saw to that”

“Always a back talker” Lucien smiled an icy smile with no human emotion behind it. “I could never get you to shut the fuck up”.

“God knows you tried” Crowley responded, still using his flat, blank voice.

“I tried to find you after you left with  _ my money _ , but you snuck away didn’t you? I knew I could never trust you. You’re a slippery one aintchya?” His tone had taken on a hint of anger, of malice and the sound of it made Aziraphale’s knees weak with fear. 

Crowley however seemed completely unaffected. His voice when he spoke was even and calm. “You’re a piece of shit Lucien. An abuser and a rapist and a talentless hack. Now leave before I call the police and have you put away.”

“Again?” Lucien asked. “I already did time because of you. Turns out the men whose money you took came looking for me, caused such a ruckus that the police came. They got me for possession and I did five years. Five fucking years because a willfull little bitch like you couldn’t stay faithful”

“ _ Faithful _ ?” Now Aziraphale could hear anger colouring Crowley’s tone. “You’re one to talk about faith, you disgusting, abusive pig.”

Aziraphale saw the other man’s flinch at Crowley’s words. Saw his finger tighten on the trigger of the gun and his mind went blank. Time slowed to a crawl and before he was consciously aware of his feet moving, he’d stepped between Crowley and Lucien.. 

He heard the loud clap of the gun going off and felt a strange, painless punch to his left shoulder that knocked him back against Crowley. He heard Crowley’s strangled cry as if from a distance in his now ringing ears and felt them both tumble to the ground. He heard footsteps.. Those of the man with the gun? retreating swiftly off, away down the street and he was suddenly looking up at the night sky. He absently noticed that only a few stars could be seen through the lights of the city before Crowley’s face loomed above him, twisted with fear. “Aziraphale! Aziraphale!” his voice, no longer calm and emotionless, sounded ever so pained, so full of fear and grief and Aziraphale wondered what was wrong. He couldn’t feel his right shoulder, couldn’t feel the concrete of the sidewalk under him. He reached his left hand to the numb spot on his right shoulder and felt wetness there, then reached up to touch Crowley’s anguished face and was surprised to see a red smear appear there as his fingers rested limply against Crowley’s cheek. 

Then the pain came, and following shortly on its heels there was darkness. 


	17. Post Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear dear readers! I wouldn't unload that much angst without making it all better with a big pile of comfort and fluffy smut to smooth it out again. 
> 
> I am tired and it's late, so this could be riddled with mistakes. I beg you to forgive me. I'll look in on the damage tomorrow.

It was three days after Crowley had confronted him in the bar, had told him to ‘rot in hell’ with that hateful look on his handsome face and Hastur as slowly being eaten up inside by a resentment and a low burning rage he’d never before thought himself capable of. He sat now, in a bar on the other side of the city from the ones he usually frequented, waiting for a man he’d never met to walk through the door. 

It hadn’t taken all that much work to find Lucien. Crowley had disclosed the man’s last name, Brimmerston, to Hastur years ago, and the name had stuck in his memory. Mostly due to the fact that it sounded so much like “brimstone”. After some extensive google searching, and some phone calls made to a few choice people, he’d located the man’s number and address. He’d called and asked the rough voiced person who answered the phone to meet him at the bar of his choosing to discuss “Your old friend Anthony”.

He knew what he was doing was wrong. But so was what Crowley did to him. By sleeping with Hastur and then pushing him away, he’d effectively broken Hastur’s heart and made him live the last fifteen years in anguished obscurity as Crowley’s  _ friend.  _ Oh how Hastur hated that word.  _ Friend _ . He’d heard Crowley say that to him countless times. 

_ You’re a good friend Hastur _

_ You’re always there when I need a friend _

_ I’m glad I have friends like you _

The memories of how pathetically Hastur had jumped to be at Crowley’s beck and call over the years made Hastur feel sick inside. It as all Crowley’s fault. For being a blind fool. For leading Hastur on. For not recognizing the clearly superior person Hastur was, deep inside.

Well, this is what he deserved for playing with Hastur so cruelly. Hastur was certain that not much would befall Crowley. Maybe Lucien would rough him up a bit, or throw a brick through Crowley’s gallery window. Or maybe take a fist or two to that ridiculous fop Crowley had decided to love instead of Hastur. 

  
It was only when he’d told Lucien of Crowley’s location, of Crowley’s life and of Crowley’s happiness with someone new, and as Hastur saw the look of silent, cold rage that settled on the older man’s features that he realized that he’d made a mistake. Lucien had asked Hastur to tell him where Aziraphale’s shop was and where Crowley’s gallery was, and Hastur had frankly been afraid to deny him. There was something unsettling about the gaunt, hunted looking man that made Hastur want to give him what he asked for, so that he’d leave and not come back again. 

Lucien had left swiftly, without thanking Hastur for the info. Without a backward’s glance. Hastur had proceeded to get very very drunk to evade the thoughts of what he might have set into motion. 

************************

  
  


Aziraphale opened his eyes to the sight of Newt coming to him across the floor of an empty church. In his hands were a set of wings he’d constructed out of wire and white chicken feathers, and Aziraphale could hear Newt telling him  _ Here Aziraphale, put these on. You can fly out of here. _ The look on Newt’s face had been one of kindness and helpfulness, as he held the wings up for Aziraphale’s inspection. 

But when Aziraphale looked around to see where he happened to be, he was suddenly in his old bedroom from when he was a child. A large, wooden cross hung on the wall above his small childhood bed, and he could vaguely see the dark shapes of his toys on the floor in the dim light coming from the hallway outside his cracked bedroom door. Newt was gone now, and Aziraphale could tell that he stood with the wings attached to his back. No, more than attached. They were a  _ part of his back _ , he could feel them sprouting behind him, see the snowy white tips of the wings as they curled about him. He felt suddenly very sad. Had these been there his whole life? And if so, why hadn’t he seen them before? Could he have spent the last forty some-odd years of his life swooping about in the sky? Free as a bird? If only he’d known sooner!

The scene abruptly changed again, the wings were gone, and he was in his shop. Crowley’s voice was coming from nowhere, from everywhere, thick with emotion and hushed, as if he were whispering to Aziraphale, but Aziraphale couldn’t see him. 

_ Angel.. Come back to me. Come back. Don’t leave _

He wished he could console Crowley, but he couldn’t find him. He walked down all the rows of books in his shop, peered into all the dark, dusty corners and up into the bedroom. He found his bed freshly made, and a small part of his mind thought that this was strange, because his last and clearest memory had been of making love to Crowley on that bed, of leaving it mussed up and delightfully ruined, the covers in disarray. 

He missed Crowley already and longed to see him again, to wrap his arms around him and kiss him like he knew he was now allowed to do. How long had it been since he’d seen Crowley? He swore it was only minutes ago, but now it felt more like days...weeks maybe? He sat down absently in the overstuffed armchair in his study and gave the matter of where to find Crowley some serious thought

**********************************************************

Crowley woke with a start as the machine at Azraphale’s bedside began beeping plaintively. He was on his feet, staggering woozily for the door of the hospital room in seconds. “Nurse! Nurse! The machine is making a noise! Nurse!” He staggered out into the hallway, still clumsy and confused after waking from a fitful sleep into fear. A nurse hurried over and bustled into Aziraphale’s room to check the beeping sound. She changed out a bag from the IV drip, checked his vitals and gave Crowley a sympathetic look before she exited. “He’ll be fine Mr. Crowley. I just needed to change out his IV bag. His vitals are still good”

“Yes, but when will he wake up?” Crowley asked plaintively. It had been two days. Two days of worry and hope and anguish. Two days spent almost exclusively in and out of a chair by Aziraphale’s bed, trying to read, dozing fitfully, holding the prone man’s hand in his own. Two days of tears and uncertainty and a lingering sense of dread that Aziraphale would not come back, would not wake up.

Crowley could still feel the cold pavement under his knees as he’d knelt with Aziraphale’s limp, heavy body before him on the sidewalk, watching in terror as the red stain from the bullet wound in his shoulder seeped out to color the pale fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt. Luckily, Lucien, perhaps shocked into motion by the reality of what he’d done, had fled the scene, rather than stay to try and finish what he’d started. Crowley offered up a silent prayer to that monster’s cowardice and lack of follow through. It probably saved both of their lives.

He’d pressed both hands to the wound to staunch the bleeding, hadn’t he heard somewhere to do that? But after a couple of minutes, minutes spent weeping and babbling, to god, to Aziraphale, to anyone who’d listen, about how he needed Aziraphale not to die, needed Aziraphale to stay with him...cold reason had finally prevailed, and he’d realized that he needed to call the police. He couldn’t rely on the fact that some denizen of the neighborhood had heard the shot and had done it for him. The streets were empty and his head had been spinning with adrenaline and fear. And so he’d dared to remove one hand from Aziraphale’s shoulder to dig in his pocket for his phone. He unlocked it with a shaking, bloody thumb and dialed 999. 

A calm and somewhat bored sounding dispatch officer picked up, and Crowley managed somehow to stammer out what had happened and their location. He’d hung up after being assured that an ambulance was on the way and had returned to holding Aziraphale’s now blood soaked shoulder and gazing into his pale, unconscious face. He’d remembered absently thinking how theatrically beautiful Azirapahle looked, pale as a sheet, with red against his neck, thinking of snow white for some insane reason, and how if hope against hope the other man made it through this, he’d do everything in his power never to leave his side again. 

The rest of the morning had been a blur. The ride to the hospital, sitting in the back of the ambulance while a pair of EMPs hovered around Aziraphale’s limp, pale form, setting up an IV, putting an oxygen mask over his face, shouting orders to each other and communicating with the hospital they raced towards, luckily, the same one where Anathema had had her baby barely two weeks ago. Crowley hadn’t been able to help but think of all that had changed in that time. How he’d met Aziraphale, fallen for Aziraphale. How the other man had suddenly become irreplaceable to him. Crowley had not been able to bear the thought of losing Aziraphale. It was unthinkable. So he pushed it from his mind and focused instead on hope. 

He’d asked shakily if he could get Aziraphale’s phone, to alert his friends, and they’d let him fish it out of his pocket. Once they’d arrived at the hospital and whisked Aziraphale away to emergency, he’d dialed Anathema’s number with shaking fingers.

“Hello? Who’s this?” A fully conscious yet tired sounding female voice had answered.

“Anathema? It’s Crowley. It’s Aziraphale.. He’s.. he’s been shot. He’s.. He’s.. We’re at the hospital”

“What? What! Shot?! Oh god no” Her voice full of worry, she’d asked where they were and said that she and Newt would be there as soon as they could.

And then all Crowley could do was wait. He’d washed Aziraphale’s blood off his hands in the hospital bathroom, had answered the questions put to him by the hospital staff and the police sargent they’d brought in. Had told everyone about Lucien. His name, his age, what type of gun he’d used (Crowley hadn’t been sure), the general vicinity where he believed Lucien lived, though it had been far too many years for Crowley to know for sure. He kept Hastur’s name out of it. He wasn’t sure why. 

30 minutes later Anathema had pulled him into a fierce embrace and they’d both wept while Newt stood nearby with a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, little Abigail, looking sleepy and confused in the crook of his other elbow. 

Crowley had told her what happened. About his ex somehow finding him. He’d been consumed by guilt that this was his fault. That his past literally coming back to haunt him had risked Aziraphale’s life. That Aziraphale could still die from something someone he used to know had done to him. Anathema had shushed him, stroking his shoulder and reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault. He’d done nothing to make this happen, but Crowley had not been able to find solace in her reassurances. Not until he saw Aziraphale again, alive and well. 

And then, six hours later, after Abigail had been fed and was asleep in Newt’s arms and Crowley was catching a few winks of fitful sleep on a small, stiff sofa, he was shaken awake by Anathema. The surgeon was here to talk to them. The surgeon asked what their relationships were to Aziraphale and Anathema had simply said “Family. We’re his family”

The doctor had informed them that Aziraphale was stable. The bullet had knicked the brachial artery in his shoulder and had lodged itself in the muscles underneath his scapula. They’d managed to repair the damage to the artery before he lost too much blood, and with physical therapy, and a little luck, he’d be able to regain the use of his his right arm, with only some nerve damage and stiffness. It would be a long recovery period, but he would hopefully be OK. 

Crowley had felt relief wash through him like a river, had felt his knees threaten to buckle under him. Two hours later, they’d been able to see Aziraphale. He was unconscious, the doctor had warned them. And he might stay that way for some time while his body healed. 

“He could wake up in a day, or it could take several days. There’s no way of knowing”

The’d all crowded into the hospital room and gathered around Aziraphale’s bed. Aziraphale lay, peaceful and very pale against a pile of pillows, an IV in his arm and a nasal cannula for oxygen in his nostrils. His right shoulder was a mass of bandages. They’d all washed up and put on gowns over their clothes so that they could touch him, after promising not to go near the wounded shoulder on his right hand side. 

Crowley had waited while Anathema and Newt bent over his still form, had watched as Anathema had broken down crying, leaning against Newt. Eventually, they’d had to leave to take Abigail home.. Abigail who had been silent and well behaved the whole time, but who needed to be changed and fed again and put down for a nap. 

Anathema had put her hands on Crowley’s forearms, had gazed up into Crowley’s eyes, (he’d removed his glasses in the relatively dim light of the hospital room) and told him to be brave and that Aziraphale would be fine. But he could see the worry in her tear stained face, and he could tell his own face must mirror hers. They’d hugged swiftly and then Crowley was alone with Aziraphale again. He’d sat by the bed, taken Aziraphale’s limp, warm hand in his own, had kissed it, held it to his damp cheek. He’d whispered things to Aziraphale had hadn’t been able to say when he’d been conscious, about how much he loved Aziraphale. How he couldn’t stand to be without him. How if he pulled through, Crowley would do his best to see that no harm ever befell him again. He’d quietly begged Aziraphale to come back to him, to give him the chance to make good on his promise. He’d collapsed, crying into the thin blankets of the hospital bed, had fallen asleep there eventually. 

Later that day, he’d taken a taxi back to his car, had called Mary at the gallery to tell her there’d been a family emergency. She’d readily agreed to take care of matters, to cancel his appointments for the next week. He’d gone back to his flat for a quick shower and change of clothing and had driven back to the hospital.

Two days had gone by. Two days spent talking to Anathema and Newt and Deirdre and Arthur and eating from a vending machine, and endless cups of weak hospital coffee. The Youngs thought it was best to keep Adam away from the hospital until Aziraphale woke up. He was so young and so enamored of his honorary uncle. It wouldn’t do to have the image of Aziraphale unconscious and surrounded by beeping machines in his head. 

Deirdre had placed a hand to Aziaphale’s sleeping face and had cried and hugged Arthur. Then she’d hugged Crowley, telling him as she did to be brave and that everything would work out. 

On the evening of the second day, Crowley had prayed. He’d never done it before, and was fairly certain there didn’t need to be a particular order or method to prayer. You simply asked god for what you needed didn’t you? Crowley needed Aziraphale to wake up and be alright, and so he’d squeezed his eyes shut, clutched Aziraphale’s hand in his and had sent up a quiet prayer. 

_ “Dear god.”  _ he whispered  _ “I know we never talk. I know I haven’t always been the best person, but I need a favor. I need you to bring Aziraphale back to me. To us. He’s so good and so perfect and it would be a shame if you took him away. He needs to wake up and bring his light back to us. Please god. Please. I’ve never asked for anything before. Please just help him find his way back. Please.” _

**************************************************

Aziraphale could hear Crowley whispering to him. He still sat in the armchair, but the sitting room in his shop had grown quite dark. And sometimes it wasn’t his sitting room at all, but the church where he used to go to Sunday services as a child. Sometimes it was Anathema and Newt’s living room. Sometimes it was his old office where he worked for his publisher boss. Things kept changing around him, and he heard voices coming and going. Anathema’s voice, Deirdre’s voice, choked with tears. He would call out to them, but they never seemed to hear him.

This time though, Crowley’s voice was very close. As if the other man was whispering into Aziraphale’s ear. Aziraphale strained to hear what he was saying and realized it was a prayer. Crowley was praying. Why? He’d never been a religious person. His voice sounded very distraught and Aziraphale grew concerned that Crowley was unhappy. He heard the words “god” and “please”, interspersed with other fervently whispered words that weren’t quite clear to him. 

He didn’t want Crowley to be upset. He wanted to make him happy. He concentrated on the voice in his ear to see if he could make out any other words and slowly, as he listened, he began to feel the scenery change again around him. Instead of the plush armchair he sat in in his bookshop, he felt a soft mattress under him. He was lying on a bed. Everything was dark, but Crowley’s whispering voice was definitely somewhere nearby. If only he could open his eyes to look. His eyes were closed, he realized now. It wasn’t dark wherever he was, it was simply that his eyes were closed. Well, he’d just have to open them then. It wasn’t easy. His eyelids felt like they were weighted down. He struggled for a moment and succeeded in cracking them open a fraction. Then, he tried a second time and a third and finally succeeded in opening his eyes. He was looking at a wall in a dimly lit room. There was a poster of a local charity organization posted on the wall. It was painted blue gray. It looked unfamiliar.

He heard a noise beside him and looked down to see Crowley, head bent, sitting at his side, his copper hair falling in his face, Aziraphale’s hand clasped in both his own. 

“Crowley?” his voice was a soft, broken whisper, Crowley’s head snapped up instantly and Aziraphale had the presence of mind to be surprised by the sight of the other man’s face. It was tear stained and pale. Crowley had dark circles under his eyes and his cheeks looked hollow. His lovely, pale gold eyes grew wide as he looked back at Aziraphale, his mouth gaping open in surprise. 

“Aziraphale!” his voice was also a horse whisper. “Aziraphale. Oh..oh my god.” 

Aziraphale felt himself execute a weak smile. “Hello Crowley” he said. “Can I have some water please?” His voice as he said it sounded like the cracked voice of a much older man.. So much so that it surprised him. 

“Yes.. yes! Yes of course” But Crowley hadn’t moved, he was simply staring at Aziraphale, his face transformed into a mask of complete wonder. 

After a moment though, he seemed to remember himself and rushed out of Aziraphale’s line of vision. He returned a moment later with a blue plastic cup with a straw and held it to Aziraphale’s lips. He took a few sips, relishing the taste of the cold water as his washed down his very sore throat. It was then that he noticed the tube of oxygen in his nose and bringing his hand up to his face, fumbled at it so he could pull it away from his nostrils.

“Here. here darling. Let me help you with that” Crowley swiftly and gently pushed Aziraphale’s hand away and pulled the cannula out of Aziraphale’s nose.

  
“Why are you crying dearest?” Aziraphale was confused. 

Crowley sat down with a thud in the chair at Aziraphale’s bedside. “I thought I might have lost you angel” he said, then he grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and brought it to his mouth to kiss it. His shoulders shook and he was sobbing now, his tears dampening Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale tried to move his right hand to touch Crowley’s hair, his face, but a sharp twinge of pain stopped him before he could move an inch.

“Is this a hospital?” he croaked out, “why am I in a hospital? Oh dearest. Oh my love, please don’t cry. I’m fine. I’m just fine and dandy”. 

Crowley chuckled through his tears. “Only you would say something like ‘fine and dandy’, at a time like this.” 

“Come here darling. Give me a kiss. I’ve missed you so.” He watched as Crowley, his eyes still shining, his cheeks wet with tears, leaned up and placed his lips gently against Aziraphale’s, then kissed his forehead, then his cheeks, then collapsed again in the chair by his bedside, his face buried in the blankets by Aziraphale’s waist, his shoulders shaking with sobs. Aziraphale reached his left hand out to stroke Crowley’s hair. “There now darling. Please don’t cry. I’m fine. I’m right as rain” He continued to stroke Crowley’s hair until his sobs slowed and stopped, until Crowley fell asleep under the feel of Aziraphale’s gentle fingers carding through his hair. Then Aziraphale too fell asleep. A proper sleep, not full of strange dreams, his hand still resting on Crowley’s silky head. 

***************************************************

The next day there were a lot more tears. Anathema cried and kissed Aziraphale all over his face. Newt cried and gingerly hugged Aziraphale so as not to hurt him. They held out Abigail so that she could say hello, and she grabbed Aziraphale’s nose and burped. 

Crowley watched from nearby, not wanting to insert himself too much into their reunion, but unable to leave the room, unwilling to lose sight of Aziraphale for a second. The four of them sat and talked for a long time. Aziraphale was regaining his strength. He’d drank several more cups of water and had even eaten a few crackers from the hospital mess hall. 

Crowley had filled him in on what had happened. Had told him about Lucien, the gun, how Aziraphale had stepped in front of Crowley. Had taken the bullet meant for Crowley, which had elicited some very unfunny jokes on Aziraphale’s part (“oh how heroic! You must have found me quite attractive in that moment. I’ve always wanted to save a fair prince from an evil magician!”) It took Crowley a little while to remember that Aziraphale was still rather doped up on pain medication. 

Aziraphale didn’t remember a thing about the experience, which was common with violent trauma survivors. Crowley supposed that was merciful, and hoped that his love’s memory didn’t return. Aziraphale seemed only concerned with whether or not Lucien had harmed Crowley, and upon being reassured that he hadn’t (other than coming close to breaking Crowley’s heart into a thousand pieces, to say nothing of the Pulsifers and the Youngs’ collective hearts), he’d seemed content to let the whole situation stay in the past and focus all of his energy on healing. 

Crowley recounted how the police had come to tell him that they’d found Lucien, dead of a heroin overdose in his small, one bedroom flat across town, with the gun in his possession. That the ordeal was over for good. Crowley still couldn’t bring himself to give the police Hastur’s name. Out of some old sense of loyalty? He wasn’t sure. Partly he kept silent because he couldn’t prove that it had been Hastur who’d tipped Lucien off to Crowley’s whereabouts, and it would only lead to drama and confusion to bring it up now. He had Aziraphale back and that was all that mattered. If he knew Hastur, the other man wouldn’t dare try to do anything else to seek revenge. He was a coward who knew when he was beaten. What Crowley also knew was that Hastur had better stay away from him, or he didn’t know what he’d do to the man.

As he looked at Aziraphale’s smiling face, his newly flushed cheeks and heard his laugh, still softer and fainter than usual, but still full of joy, he knew that nothing else mattered than that Aziraphale was alive and well. He couldn’t forgive Hastur, but he could move on and focus on love and growth instead of bitterness and anger. 

********************************************************

What with all the visitors and the nurses and doctors, Aziraphale and Crowley hadn’t had much time to be alone together. Crowley had resisted getting too close to Aziraphale physically because of his injuries, and emotionally because he simply wanted Aziraphale to heal, without Crowley pushing his feelings on the poor man. He visited every single day, and always brought Aziraphale flowers. And as Aziraphale’s health improved and he was able to sit up in bed and eat real food, Crowley brought him an endless supply of fancy pastries, Indian take out, steamed dumplings. He fed Aziraphale like a worried mother until Aziraphale started leaving more and more leftovers after each visit and Crowley knew it was time to lay off the refeeding. 

He told Aziraphale about business at the gallery, how his new mural was almost done. He told him about how he’d had lunch with Anathema when they’d both found themselves at the hospital, alone and hungry on the second day of Aziraphale’s sleep, and how much he had enjoyed getting to know her. He listened as Aziraphale told him of his strange dreams, of wings and churches and his childhood and how he’d heard Crowley talking to him from within in his dreamlike state. Crowley cried again and Aziraphale kissed his hand, his palm, his knuckles and pulled him into an awkward half-hug to console him. 

Eventually, it was time for Aziraphale to leave the hospital. His shoulder had healed enough to wear in a sling and he barely needed any pain medicine to manage the twinging stiffness of the bullet wound. Crowley helped him dress, trying and failing to keep his hungry eyes from roaming over Aziraphale’s thick thighs and soft, broad shoulders as he helped him into his pants and helped pull his undershirt on over his head. Anathema had brought him new clothes because of course his old ones were all stained. 

He’d driven Aziraphale back to the shop and watched as Aziraphale had wandered unsteadily down the aisles, touching the books on the shelves with gentle, reverent fingers as if saying hello again after his long absence. It had barely been two weeks, and yet it did feel as if Aziraphale had been in the hospital for a year. 

Crowley visited Aziraphale every day and slept there most nights. He brought him dinner, tea, desserts, flowers. Aziraphale accepted them all graciously, blushing and kissing Crowley with sweet enthusiasm. 

Crowley usually helped Azirapahle into bed and then climbed in beside him, being careful to only press himself against Aziraphale’s left side, so they could sleep next to each other. Aziraphale was required to sleep on his back, against a pile of pillows to keep his shoulder somewhat elevated. He was tired and easily winded, and the first few nights, he gave Crowley a chaste kiss, before wrapping his good arm around Crowley and drifting off to sleep. Eventually though, the goodnight kisses turned rather more involved and passionate, and Crowley couldn’t help but to reach down and to gently stroke Aziraphale’s very erect cock over his pyjamas. Azirapahle urged him on with soft moans and gentle thrusts of his hips and that was all the encouragement Crowley needed to slide down and take Aziraphale into his mouth to finish him off while slipping a hand down to stroke himself in tandem. 

Some nights Crowely used his hand on Aziraphale instead, whispering heated words of encouragement into his ear and delighting at the gasps and groans he could pull from Aziraphale’s open mouth. Sometimes he lay on his back next to Aziraphale so they could stroke each other, his head turned to kiss Aziraphale’s shoulder and gasp words of affection and to beg softly for him to keep going  _ keep going, please angel, please, please you feel so good.  _ The things he said to Aziraphale always skirted the obvious without coming out and saying the truth, that he was madly in love with Aziraphale, that he’d have been a ruined man if the bullet had hit just a few inches lower. That he wanted to spend the rest of his days near Aziraphale, keeping him safe. Laughing with him. Making love to him. He had no idea why he held back, why the old fear was still there after all they’d been through, and Aziraphale never pushed him. 

Crowley eventually came to realize that his reticence had to do with loss. If he spoke the words out loud to Aziraphale,  _ someone else _ would hear him, and the universe itself.. The powers of hell? Would bend themselves to pull Aziraphale away from him again. If he never said it to Aziraphale, never confessed his love properly, he could somehow protect the both of them from harm. He knew it was completely, utterly irrational, but a history of having the rug ripped out from under him made his conscious mind concoct these paranoid ideations. 

And so he bit his tongue, even as his love for Aziraphale grew stronger and stronger. Even as they lay together each night, in post orgasmic bliss, gazing drunkenly into each other’s eyes, he couldn’t say it.

One day, about a month after Aziraphale left the hospital, Crowley drove them together back to the Youngs house for dinner and spent another evening in joyous conversation, laughing and talking over Deirdre’s roast beef dinner and the apple strudel she’d made (sadly, without Aziraphale’s help this time). Adam, usually not very physically affectionate, had thrown himself at Aziraphale, wrapping his arms around his stomach and saying a muffled “I missed you” into Aziraphale’s coat buttons. Afterwards, he’d followed Aziraphale around all night, peppering him with questions about the different ways people in the middle ages murdered each other, until Deirdre had told him to stop being creepy and to drop the subject. 

After dinner, Anathema had pulled Crowley outside for a chat. 

“How are things?” she asked, in her charmingly American way. “Are you  _ helping him recover _ ?” the suggestion plain in her tone. Crowley grinned at her and nodded, feeling his face grow hot. 

“So, now that you’ve confessed undying love for each other, are you two going to move in together..? Do that marriage thing? What’s happening next?” She peered at him with laughing eyes over the rim of her wine glass. 

Crowley sighed and looked down at his shoes. “Well, things aren’t exactly out in the open yet” he mumbled.

“What!? You haven’t told him yet? You two spend practically every day together, you’re clearly shagging like fools. What’s holding you back? You love him don’t you?”

Crowley nodded, still looking down at his shoes. “I..” he wasn’t sure how to say it “I’m afraid”

“Afraid of what?”

“Afraid he’ll leave me. Afraid he’ll die. Jesus, he very nearly did two weeks ago. I’m afraid he’ll somehow break my heart” Crowley felt a lump rising in his throat and resolutely swallowed it down again. 

“So?” Anathema’s response made him raise his head to look at her. 

“So?” he repeated. “What do you mean so?”

“So he leaves you. So he dies. So he breaks your heart. This stuff happens all the time. Do you think not telling him how you feel will make him live forever? I swear Crowley,” she shook her head while she took another swift swallow of her wine “Sometimes I think you’re all looks and no brains”

Crowley grinned at her playful, backhanded compliment. He supposed she had a point. They walked back into the sitting room arm in arm, Crowley feeling bolstered by her encouragement.

Eventually, he could tell Aziraphale’s energy was starting to flag and so they said their goodbyes. Again, they were plied with leftovers. Again, Aziraphale held his hand all the way back to the bookshop. It felt to Crowley almost an exact replica of the first night they’d made love. A second chance to do it right this time. 

As they went through their nightly routine of Crowley helping Aziraphale get his clothes off and settle into bed, (they slept naked virtually all the time now), Crowley was sure Azirapahle was too tired for sex, but when he tried to kiss Aziraphale goonight in a soft and chaste way, Azirapahle’s hand came up and wrapped itself in Crowley’s hair and he opened his mouth willingly and fervently aganst Crowley’s and suddenly they were both breathless with want. Feeling that Aziraphale had recovered sufficiently, and with his permission, Crowley climbed into his lap to grind them together, while continuing to kiss Aziraphale passionately. Azirapahle still slept propped on several large pillows and it was lovely to have him half sitting up, able to wrap his good arm around Crowley’s waist, to have them press their bare chests together while Crowley moved against him. 

Crowley felt a growing need arise inside him to get even closer to Azirapahle. To feel Azirapahle inside him, and he said as much, pulling back to gaze into Azirapahle’s dialated eyes, to admire his flushed face and lovely, kiss bruised lips to say plainly and in a breathless voice “I want you to fuck me”.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows crept up in an expression of surprise, and Crowley couldn’t blame him. They’d never attempted that particular act before. Crowley had always tied it to his past, to assault and pain and shame. He hadn’t let any man penetrate him since Lucien. Aziraphale seemed to sense this, even though they’d never discussed it, because he put a loving hand to Crowley’s cheek and asked “Are you sure dearest?”

“I’m sure” Crowley replied. He was more than sure. He was aching to feel Azirapahle inside him. 

“Well, that might prove difficult being that I’m…” Aziraphale looked down unnecessarily at his prone body

“Oh ye of little faith” Crowley grinned at him and kissed him deeply, continuing to grind them together with slow precision until Azirapahle was gasping and thrusting up against him, his left hand gripping Crowley’s hip and urging him to move faster. He then leaned over to the now familiar bedside drawer to grab the bottle of lube and slicked his own fingers. He leaned up on his knees, still kissing Aziraphale as he used his own fingers to ease inside his tight opening and work himself open. He groaned against Aziraphale’s lips at the feel of it and the thought that it would soon be Aziraphale’s beautiful cock that would replace his fingers.

When he felt he was loose and slick enough, he reached between them to grasp Aziraphale by the base and positioned him at Crowley’s entrance. “I’ll go slow” he said to Aziraphale, realizing that it would traditionally be the one doing the penetrating who should be saying this, but Azirapahle was elevated slightly, lying on his back with a wounded shoulder, looking so sweet and so expectant, flushed and breathless with desire, and though Crowley was aching to ride him, he didn’t want to hurt him either. 

Slowly, he placed the head of Aziraphale’s cock at his opening and sat back gently, groaning low in his throat as he felt himself stretch open to accept Azirapahle. He sank down slowly, carefully watching the changing expressions on Azirapahle’s face as Crowley enveloped him, until Aziraphale was fully inside him. They both moaned at the feel of it and Crowley leaned forward to kiss Aziraphale gently. 

Aziraphale’s face when Crowley pulled back was a thing of pure beauty. His eyes were half lidded and glazed, his mouth parted slightly, his pale cheeks colored with the flush of sexual arousal. He was breathing deeply, gripping Crowley’s forearm with a desperate hand, looking up at Crowley with awe. The feel of Azirapahle’s cock, buried in him to the hilt was indescribable. Beautiful. Breathtaking. Crowley had to take a minute to settle atop Aziraphale, letting himself stretch to accommodate him and braced his hands against Azirapahle’s left shoulder and beside his head on the pillows on the right side. 

When he felt secure and ready, he moved, pulling up gently and settling back down again and he watched Aziraphale’s face transform, his mouth fall open and his brows knit. “Oh god Crowley. Oh you feel so good. So tight. Please… move more.” The hand on his forearm moved to grip his hip and pull Crowley towards him. 

Crowley did as he was told and slowly moved his hips in another slow up and down roll and they both cried out at the sensation of the delicious friction between them. Soon Crowley started to move in a steady, soft rhythm of rising and falling. He could feel something building deep within him, as he moved, as he felt Aziraphale move inside him. The sight of Aziraphale’s face beneath him, so lost in love and pleasure, the feel of his cock pushing and pulling out of Crowley, pressing against places inside him that had lain untouched for so very long.. All of it was too much. 

“I.. I. love you” He blurted out, and watched as Aziraphale’s face took on a new look, one of fierce joy that dawned slowly inside his luminous eyes. Once Crowley said it, it seemed he couldn’t stop. He continued rocking back and forth atop Aziraphale as he spilled out his heart. “I love you. I love you. Dear god, I love you angel. So much. I’m so in love with you. So in love.”

Aziraphale pulled him down into an embrace, the sex momentarily forgotten as he held Crowley tight and stroked his hair. “I love you too Crowley. So very much. I’m so in love with you too” his voice was soft and reassuring. His declaration less a confession and more a well known truth. In that moment, as Crowley shook with emotion and let Aziraphale wrap his good arm tightly around Crowley’s shoulders and whisper declarations in his ear, and kiss his cheek, he knew that saying he loved Aziraphale wasn’t about a confession. 

Aziraphale already knew. Of course he did. Crowley had told him he loved him over and over and over again, in the form of gifts and food and cups of tea. In the way he helped him get dressed an undressed. In the way he was always seconds from being consumed by passion for Aziraphale. How could the other man not sense it? Crowley had been a fool. Saying ‘I love you’ to Aziraphale had really been about Crowley feeling worthy of something so beautiful and important as a loving, giving partner. It was about him recognizing that real, respectful, affectionate, devastatingly good love was something possible. It wasn’t a fairy tale. It was a thing that Crowley needed and deserved. 

Crowley pulled back slightly and looked down into Aziraphale’s glowing hazel eyes and smiled, feeling a warm rush of affection for this eccentric, beautiful man he cared for so much. “I love you”, he said again, just to say it, then he kissed Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s cock had begun to flag a little through the pure emotion of Crowley’s breakthrough, but Crowley’s inventive kisses soon had him fully erect again.. Crowley groaned against Aziraphale’s lips at the feel of the other man filling him, growing inside him as they kissed. He began to move again, in earnest this time, rocking forward and back, riding Aziraphale with controlled enthusiasm. He was spurred on by Aziraphale’s open mouthed cries, Aziraphale’s hand gripping tightly on his hip and pulling.. pulling him forward, and oh dear lord, pushing him back again, directing him. He sat up straighter in Aziraphale’s lap so that he could free his hands, groaning at the sudden increase in the depth of the penetration before using one of his hands to pleasure himself. The other hand he placed against Aziraphale’s stomach, gently bracing himself, reveling in the feel of Aziraphale’s soft skin and the dusting of pale hair under his fingertips as he rocked back and forth. 

It didn’t take long for both of them to reach their peak. With a few more swift pulls of his cock and a few more back and forth rocking motions, Crowley felt himself convulse with pleasure around Aziraphale’s cock and saw streaks of semen stripe their way across Aziraphale’s stomach as he came, gasping out Aziraphale’s name. The sight and sound and feel of Crowley coming, pushed Aziraphale over the edge, and he groaned out a low exhalation of breath as he thrust his hips up and exploded inside Crowley.

Eventually, Crowley’s rocking slowed and ceased and he carefully disengaged from Aziraphale, rolling to the other side of the bed to grab a towel and clean them both up before snuggling against a dazed and very happy looking Aziraphale, who was still catching his breath.

“I must say Crowley” he gasped out in a voice filled with wonder “This new physical therapy technique you’ve employed is  _ very _ effective!” 

Crowley gave a snort of surprised laughter and snuggled closer to Aziraphale, pulling the covers up over both of them. “I’m glad it’s helping angel” he replied with a broad grin. “It works best when you do it consistently”

He took a moment to revel in the pure, unbridled pleasure he felt at being wrapped up against Aziraphale, his leg slung over Aziraphale’s thick waist, his face buried in Aziraphale’s sweet smelling neck.

“I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you angel” he murmured against Aziraphale’s soft skin. “I was so scared that you’d leave, or that you’d get tired of me. Or that I wasn’t good enough for you.”

“Don’t be silly darling. You’re so very good. So good” Aziraphale stroked Crowley’s shoulder and pulled him in closer. 

“I struggle to believe that sometime angel. Thanks for telling me. I hope you do know how much I love you. That I’m crazy about you. That I can’t think straight when I’m around you. You know that don’t you?”

“I do my dearest. I do” Crowley could feel Azirpahale smile against the top of his head. It was the last thing he remembered before he fell into a deep and peaceful sleep. 

______________________________

A month later, Crowley had an exhibit of his new mural. He invited the Youngs, and the Pulsifers and lots of other artists and there was wine and small, very fancy hors d’oeuvres and much conversation. Everyone dressed very posh (Anathema even wore heels and red lipstick, which made her look like some devastatingly sexy movie starlet). Newt wore his new, fancy tie and a suit jacket. Crowley had brought Aziraphale with him, bow tie and all and led him to the room where the mural was being shown, at the back of the gallery. He was very curious to see Aziraphale’s reaction.

He was not to be disappointed, because when Aziraphale saw the mural, he gasped and raised a hand to his mouth, looking at Crowley with wide, misty eyes. 

“You… you.. drew an angel” he managed to get out, clutching Crowley’s hand tightly in his own. 

“Yes. I drew an angel” Crowley agreed, looking up at the vast artwork that adorned the entire back wall of the room. It depicted the dark serpent, coiled on one side of the mural, turning it’s yellow eyes to glance at Eve. She and Adam occupied the center of the mural. He was looking uneasily at the snake, while Eve reached up a delicate hand to grasp the apple, hanging from a branch above her head. The border of the mural curled with ivy leaves and impish winged creatures, and things with teeth and fangs that hid in the shadows. And over to the far right of the mural stood an angel. A beautiful angel in white robes, wielding a large, flaming sword in both of his hands. Massive, white, feathered wings grew from his back and swept up the sides of the canvas. Light radiated out from his figure, and the angel’s glowing face had features that looked very familiar. Quite reminiscent of Azirapahle’s features, though not an exact portrait. His hair was a white, wild halo around his head. 

“Darling” Aziraphale turned to gaze at Crowley with love in his eyes. “It’s beautiful. Your work is so beautiful”

“So are you angel” Crowley replied, stepping up behind Aziraphale to wrap his arms around his waist so that they could look at the mural together. “So are you my love” 


End file.
